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THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 


Works  by  the  same  Author 

RUDYARD   KIPLING:   A 

CHARACTER  STUDY 
GEORGE  BORROW:  LORD 

OF  THE  OPEN  ROAD 
WAR  AND  THE  WEIRD 
THE  AMBER   GIRL 
KIPLING'S  SUSSEX 
FRIENDLY  SUSSEX.     (In  the  Press) 


THOMAS  HARDY'S 
DORSET 


BY 

R,  THURSTON  HOPKINS 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  E.  HARRIES 
AND  FROM  PHOTOGRAPHS 


NEW  YORK 

D   APPLETON   AND   COMPANY 

1922 


F  I  RST 
EDITION 
1922 
COPY- 
RIGHT 


PRINTED  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN  BY  THE  RIVERSIDE  PRESS   LIMITED 
EDINBURGH 


CONTENTS 

CIUPTKR  PAOB 

I.   DORSET   FOLK   AND   DORSET  WAYS  .  .        13 

The  Dorset  Rustic  a  Genial  Fellow — Unconscious  Humour 
—The  Jovial  Blacksmith— Cider-making— The  Poetic 
Tippler — Anglo-Saxon  Tongue — Enigmatical  Sayings  and 
Proverbs — A  Dorset  Rector  and  his  Ale — Whiplegs — 
Thatch  and  "Cob"— A  Beautiful  Tract  between  Seaton 
and  West  Bay— The  Devil's  Own  Card — Thomas  Hardy's 
Story  of  Witchcraft— Conjurer  Trendle— The  Piskies— 
The  Bibulous  Farmer  and  the  Piskies— The  Cider  Mill- 
Happy  Days  at  Hovey's  Barn — Marc  Bricks — A  Game 
of  "  Hunting  " — A  Dorset  Vicar  on  Miracles — Akermann's 
Wiltshire  Glossary — William  Barnes — "Dorset's  good 
enough  for  me  ! " — Large  Farm  Kitchens 

II.  BARFORD      ST      MARTIN      TO      TISBURY      AND 

SHAFTESBURY  .  .  .  .  .        33 

Tisbury — John  Lockwood  Kipling — The  Green  Dragon 
at  Barford  St  Martin— The  Man  who  laughed  gloriously 
—Points  of  Perfection  in  a  Greyhound — The  Best  Dog 
that  ever  breathed — Shaftesbury  and  its  Traditions — A 
Curious  Custom — A  Story  of  Water-carrying  Days  at 
Shaston— Bimport  and  Jude  the  Obscure— Old  Grove's 
Place — Marnhull —  Pure  Drop  Inn 

III.  THE  VALE   OF  BLACKMOOR  .  .  .45 

Fortune  scowls  on  me — The  Song  of  the  Nightingale — 
A  Little  Round-Faced  Man — The  Hauntings  of  Woolpit 
House— The  Vale  of  Blackmoor— White-Hart  Silver- 
King's  Stag  Inn — The  Length  of  Life  in  Animals— Folk- 
Sayings  of  Blackmoor — The  Maidens  of  Blackmoor — 
Barnes  the  Poet 

IV.  BLANDFORD  TO   DORCHESTER       .  .  .59 

Blandford— Winterborne  Whitchurch — Turberville  the 
Poet  —  Milborne  St  Andrews  —  " Welland  House"  — 
Hardy's  Two  on  a  Tower  —  Puddletown  —  The  Story 
of  Farmer  Dribblecombe  and  the  Christmas  Ale — The 
Ancient  Family  of  Martins — The  Ape  of  the  Martins — 
The  Last  of  the  Martins— The  Church  of  Puddletown— 
A  Sad  Love  Story — "  Weatherbury  Upper  Farm  " 

7 


8  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  FACE 

V.   DORCHESTER  .  .  .  .  .69 

Daniel  Defoe's  Description  of  Dorchester  —  Doctor 
Arbuthnot  — St  Peter's  Church  —  Thomas  Hardy  of 
Melcombe  Regis  —  William  Barnes  —  Judge  Jeffreys — 
Maumbury  Rings — Mary  Channing  strangled  and  burnt 
— Thomas  Hardy  and  Relics  of  Roman  Occupation — 
Maiden  Castle  — Old  Inns  — The  Grammar  School  — 
Napper's  Mite— Hangman's  Cottage— The  Bull  Stake 
— "  Jopp's  Cottage  "—Priory  Ruins— High  Place  Hall— 
Colyton  House— The  Mask  with  a  Leer— Thomas  Hardy 
and  the  Habits  of  Bridge  Haunters — Dorchester  Ale — 
"Groves"  Stingo — The  Trumpet  Major — Toby  Fillpot — 
A  Dorchester  Butt — Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd — 
"  Yellowham  Wood"— The  Brown  Owl— The  Hedge  Pig 
—  Fordington  —  Church  of  St  George  —  Hardy's 
"Mellstock" — Winterborne  Villages — Original  Manu- 
script of  Mayor  of  Casterbridge — Wolfeton  House — 
Knightly  Trenchards— Cerne  Abbas  and  "  The  Giant " 

VI.   A     LITERARY     NOTE:     THOMAS     HARDY     AND 

WILLIAM  BARNES         .  .  .  .98 

Hardy's  Grandfather  —  Hardy  as  a  Poet  —  Primitive 
Nature  Worship  —  Prose  Poem  of  the  Cider-Maker  — 
William  Barnes  —  Troublous  Days— "Woak  Hill  "  — 
Pathetic  Touch 

VII.  BERE    REGIS    AND    THE    ANCIENT    FAMILY   OF 

TURBERVILLE  ;    *  .  .  .      122 

Yellowham  Hill — "  The  Royal  Oak"  at  Bere  Regis— My 
Friend  the  Thatcher— The  Complete  Guide  to  Thatching 
— Bere  Regis  Church — Humorous  Norman  Carvings — 
Sepulchre  of  the  Turbervilles— Outline  of  Hardy's  Tess— 
A  Turberville  Tradition— The  First  of  the  Turbervilles 
—Bryant's  Puddle— The  Old  Turberville  Manor  House- 
Descendants  of  the  Illegitimate  Turbervilles — A  Flagrant 
Poacher— The  Tyrant  of  the  Tudor  Inn— Hodge  the 
eternally  efficient— Hardy's  Tess  and  Wellbridge  Manor 
House — Tess's  Ancestors — Smoke  Pence — Superstition 
and  Shrewdness  mingled  in  the  Rustic — ' '  Old  Gover  " — 
The  Story  of  the  Turberville  Coach— Bindon  Abbey— 
Tess— A  Sinister  Old  Wood 

VIII.  ROUND  AND  ABOUT  WEYMOUTH  .  .      147 

Weymouth  and  Melcombe  Regis— Rivalry  of  the  Old 
Boroughs — George  III. — The  Sands — Uncle  Benjy  and 
Inflated  Prices— Sandsfoot  Castle— Weymouth  Localities 
in  The.  Trumpet  Major  —  The  Dynasts  —  The  Dorset 
Rustic  and  Boney— The  Girls  of  Budmouth— The  "Naples 
of  England "  —  Mr  Harper  on  the  Hardy  Country  — 
Georgian  Houses  —  The  Realest  Things  —  Interesting 


CONTENTS  9 

CHATTER  PAGE 

VIII.   BOUND  AND  ABOUT  WEYMOUTH— COnt. 

Relics  —  Preston  —  Button  Poyntz  —  The  Trumpet 
Major  —  Overcombe  Mill  —  To  keep  Dorset  fair  — A 
Soldier  Poet — Bincombe — Racy  Saxon  Speech — Hardy 
on  Wessex  Words — Poxwell — Owermoigne — Lulwortn 
Cove — Portisham — Admiral  Hardy — Abbotsbury 

IX.   POOLE  .  .  •  •  •  .163 

Poole  Harbour— The  Quay— An  English  Buccaneer— 
Brownsea  —  Ly tchett  —  "To  please  his  Wife "  —  An 
Enjoyable  Coast  Ramble 

X.   SWANAGE  AND  COBFE  CASTLE    .  .  .      168 

Kingsley's  Description  of  Swanage  —  Tilly  Whim  — 
Thomas  Hardy's  "Knollsea"— The  Quarry  Folk— A 
Mediaeval  Trades  Guild — Old  Dorset  Family  Names- 
Marrying  the  Land — High  Street  at  Swanage — Quaint 
Houses  and  a  Mill-Pond— St  Mary's  Church — Newton 
Manor — Studland — The  Agglestone — Langton  Matravers 
— Kingston — Enckworth  Court  — Corf e — The  Greyhound 
Hotel — An  Elizabethan  Manor-House — Corfe  Church — 
A  Brave  Good  Chest — Curfew — Churchwardens  and  the 
Degrees  of  Inebriation — Reward  for  killing  a  Fox — 
Lonely  Kingdom  of  an  Inn — Wareham — Wild  Life  on  the 
Frome— Wareham  once  a  Port— The  "Bloody  Bank"— 
Peter  of  Pomfret — Meaning  of  the  Name  Wareham — 
Bishop  Gating— St  Mary's  Church— "  Black  Bear  "and 
"  Red  Lion"— Chapel  of  St  Martin 

XI.   MY  ADVENTURE  WITH  A  MERRY  ROGUE  .     191 

My  Sentimentalism  over  old  Inns,  old  Ale  and  old 
Drinking  Vessels — Morcombe  Lake — "Dorset  Knobs" 
—The  Lonely  Singer — The  Leather  Black  Jack— Sleeping 
with  Miss  Green — Lyme  Regis — The  Curiosity  Shop — 
"The  Spirit  of  the  Artist  and  the  Soul  of  a  Rogue"— 
We  are  all  Rogues  ! 

XII.   THE  DEVON  AND  DORSET  BORDERLAND  .      207 

Stirring  Events — Duke  of  Monmouth — New  Inn — Youth 
beckons  with  Magic  Poignancy  —  Smuggling  Days  — 
Buddie  River  Manners— The  Cobb— Granny's  Teeth- 
Buddie  Bridge— Town  Hall— Henry  Fielding— Church  of 
St  Michael— Broad  Street— The  Master  Smith  of  Lyme— 
M'Neill  Whistler— Old  Songs— Beware  of  Late  Shooting 
—  Axininster  —  George  Inn  —  Musbury  —  Colytori  — 
Knightly  Poles—"  Little  Choke-Bone  "—The  Courtenays 
— A  Rare  British  Flower — Lambert's  Castle — Charmouth 
-Charles  II. 


10  CONTENTS 

CHAPT8R  PAOE 

XIII.  RAMBLES  ABOUND  BRIDPORT       .  .      230 

Toller  of  the  Pigs— Noble  Windows-Whyford  Eagle— A 
Curious  Tympanum — A  Remarkable  Oven — Rampisham 
—"The  Tiger's  Head"— Cross-in-Hand— Alec  D'Urber- 
ville — Batcombe — Conjuring  Minterne — The  Conjurer  of 
Bygone  Days— Hardy's  Story,  "The  Withered  Arm" 
— Minterne's  Tomb — Kipling  and  a  Sussex  "Conjurer" 
—  Bridport  —  Charles  II.  —  Hardy's  Fdlow  Townsmen 
— "Greyhound  Hotel" — A  Lover  of  Horses — "Bucky 
Doo"— "The  Bull"  and  Thomas  Hardy— Footpath  to 
West  Bay— The  Chesil  Beach— The  "Anchor  Inn"  at 
Seatown 

XIV.  ROUND  ABOUT  BEAMINSTER          .  .  .      244 

Beaminster — Lewson  Hill  and  Pil'son  Pen — Blue  Vinny 
Cheese — "Trinkrums"  on  a  Church — An  Eerie  Story — 
Netherbury — Robert  Morgan  and  his  "  Feeble  Hedde  " 

A  GLOSSARY  OF  WEST-COUNTRY  PROVINCIAL- 
ISMS        .  ...  .  -  ..  .      249 

Chosen  in  part  from  Note*  and  Queries ;  Akermann's 
Wiltshire  Glossary ;  The  Peasant  Speech  of  Devon,  by 
Sarah  Hewett ;  Crossing's  Folk  Rhymes  of  Devon  ;  The 
Saxon- English,  by  W.  Barnes  ;  The  Works  of  Thomas 
Hardy  ;  and  many  Sources  not  generally  known 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Birthplace  of  Thomas  Hardy        ....  .Frontispiece 

FACING  PACK 

Stocks  at  Tollard  Royal       .  .        34 

The  Green  Dragon  at  Barford  St  Martin  .        38 

The  Giant,  Cerne  Abbas      .  .  .        92 

Bingham's  Melcombe .            .            .  .  .      100 

Hurdle-making  at  Bere  Regis        ,  .  .      126 

Woolbridge  House      .           .           .  .  .136 

Corfe  Castle,  1865       .           .           .  .  .      160 

The  Famous  Tilly  whim  Caves,  1860  .  .      170 

Corfe  Castle,  1860       .           .,         .  .  .      176 

The  Lonely  Singer      .            .            .  .  .194 

The  River  Buddie,  Lyme  Regis     .  ,  .202 

The  Master  Smith  of  Lyme  Regis  .  .      218 

Drake  Memorial  at  Musbury          .  .  .      222 


11 


THOMAS    HARDY'S 
DORSET 

CHAPTER   I 

DORSET  FOLK  AND  DORSET  WAYS 

So  to  the  land  our  hearts  we  give 

Till  the  sure  magic  strike, 
And  Memory,  Use,  and  Love  make  live 

Us  and  our  fields  alike — 
That  deeper  than  our  speech  and  thought 

Beyond  our  reason's  sway, 
Clay  of  the  pit  whence  we  were  wrought 

Yearns  to  its  fellow-clay. 

RUDYABD  KIPLING. 

TO  the  traveller  who  takes  an  interest  in  the 
place  he  visits,  Dorset  will  prove  one  of  the 
most  highly  attractive  counties  in  the  kingdom. 
To  the  book-lover  it  is  a  land  of  grand  adventure, 
for  here  is  the  centre  of  the  Hardy  Country,  the 
home  of  the  Wessex  Novels.  It  is  in  Dorset 
that  ancient  superstitions  and  curious  old  customs 
yet  linger,  and  strange  beliefs  from  ages  long  ago 
still  survive.  It  is  good  to  find  that  the  kindly 
hospitality,  the  shrewd  wisdom  and  dry  wit,  for 
which  the  peasantry  in  Thomas  Hardy's  novels 
are  famous,  have  not  been  weakened  by  foolish 
folk  who  seek  to  be  "up  to  date."  Old  drinks 
and  dishes  that  represent  those  of  our  forefathers, 

13 


14        THOMAS   HARDY'S   DORSET 

and  the  mellow  sound  of  the  speech  that  was  so 
dear  to  Raleigh  and  Drake,  are  things  that  are 
now  giving  way  to  the  new  order  of  life,  alas! 
but  they  are  dying  hard,  as  behoves  things  which 
are  immemorial  and  sacramental.  The  rustics 
are  perhaps  not  quite  so  witty  as  they  are  in 
Hardy's  The  Return  of  the  Native  and  other 
novels,  but  they  possess  the  robust  forms  and 
simple  manners  of  a  fine  old  agricultural  people, 
while  they  show  their  spirit  by  the  proverb,  "  I 
will  not  want  when  I  have,  nor,  by  Gor,  when  I 
ha'n't,  too ! " 

Heavy  of  gait,  stolid  of  mien,  and  of  indomit- 
able courage,  the  true  Wessex  man  is  a  staunch 
friend  and  a  very  mild  enemy.  He  is  a  genial 
fellow  and,  like  Danton,  seems  to  find  no  use  for 
hate.  He  knows  that  all  things  done  in  hate 
have  to  be  done  over  again.  Imperturbable  to 
the  last  ditch,  he  is  rarely  shaken  into  any  ex- 
clamation of  surprise  or  wrath.  When  he  is, 
"  Dang-my-ole-wig ! "  "  Dallee  !  "  with  a  strong 
accent  on  the  "  ee,"  or  "  Aw  !  dallybuttons  ! "  are 
the  kind  of  mild  swear-words  one  hears.  But 
when  he  gets  into  the  towns  he  forgets  these 
strange  phrases  and  his  dialect  becomes  less  broad. 

Heavy  and  stolid  the  Dorset  rustic  may  be, 
though  there  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  he  is 
slower  than  any  other  rustic,  but  one  is  inclined 


DORSET  FOLK  AND  DORSET  WAYS     15 

to  think  that  the  "  stupidity  "  of  the  countryman 
covers  a  deep,  if  only  half-realised,  philosophy. 
Nevertheless  we  must  admit  that  Hodge  often 
wins  through  in  his  slow  way.  There  is  a  good 
deal  of  humour  in  the  Dorset  rustic,  but  perhaps 
most  of  his  wit  is  unconscious.  That  reminds  me 
of  the  story  of  a  Dorset  crier  who  kept  the 
officials  of  the  Town  Hall  waiting  for  two  hours 
on  a  certain  morning.  They  were  about  to  open 
the  proceedings  without  him  when  a  boy  rushed 
in  and  handed  the  Mayor  a  message.  He  read 
the  message  and  seemed  deeply  affected.  Then 
he  announced : 

"  I  have  just  received  a  message  from  our  crier, 
saying,  '  Wife's  mother  passed  away  last  night. 
Will  not  be  able  to  cry  to-day.'  " 

That  story  may  be  a  very  ancient  "chestnut," 
but  here  is  a  true  instance  of  Hodge's  unconscious 
humour.  The  wife  of  a  blacksmith  at  an  isolated 
forge  in  Dorset  had  died  rather  suddenly,  and  it 
happened  that  during  one  of  my  rambles  I  applied 
to  the  forge  for  food  and  lodging  for  the  night. 
The  old  fellow  opened  the  door  to  me,  and  I 
guessed  that  he  was  in  trouble  by  the  fresh  crape 
band  round  his  soft  felt  hat,  which  is  weekday 
mourning  of  the  rustic.  However,  the  old  fellow 
was  quite  pleased  to  have  me  for  company,  and  I 
stayed  at  his  forge  for  some  days. 


16        THOMAS   HARDY'S   DORSET 

"  Her  was  a  clever  woman ;  her  kept  my  things 
straight,"  he  said  to  me  one  night  at  supper,  as  he 
looked  wistfully  at  his  old  jacket  full  of  simple 
rents  from  hedgerow  briars.  "  But  it's  no  manner 
of  use  grumbling — I  never  was  a  bull-sower  lugs 
[a  morose  fellow].  And  thank  the  Lord  she  was 
took  quick.  I  went  off  for  the  doctor  four  miles 
away,  and  when  I  gets  there  he  was  gone  off  some- 
where else ;  so  I  turned,  and  in  tramping  back 
along  remembered  I  had  a  bottle  of  medicine 
which  he  did  give  me  last  year,  so  says  I,  *  That 
will  do  for  the  ol'  woman' ;  so  I  gave  it  to  her  and 
she  died." 

The  old  blacksmith  drank  his  beer  and  dealt 
with  his  ham  and  bread  for  ten  minutes  in  silence. 
Then  he  looked  into  the  amber  depths  of  his  ale 
and  said :  "  Say,  mister — wasn't  it  a  good  job  I 
didn't  take  that  bottle  of  physic  myself?  " 

Dorset  is  only  one  of  the  several  cider-making 
counties  in  Wessex.  The  good  round  cider  is  a 
warming  and  invigorating  drink  that  is  in  every 
way  equal  to  a  good  ale,  and  sometimes — especi- 
ally if  it  has  been  doctored  with  a  little  spirit 
and  kept  in  a  spirit  cask — is  considerably  stronger, 
and  is  by  no  means  to  be  consumed  regardless  of 
quantity.  And  one  must  be  cautious  in  mixing 
drinks  when  taking  cider.  But  the  cider  which  is 
consumed  by  the  Dorset  rustic  is,  to  use  a  local 


DORSET  FOLK  AND  DORSET  WAYS     17 

word,  rather  "  ramy  "  or  "  ropy  "  to  the  palate  of  a 
person  unaccustomed  to  it.  That  is  to  say  that 
it  is  sour  and  often  rather  thick.  Of  course  the 
rustic  knows  nothing,  and  would  care  nothing,  for 
the  so-called  cider  sold  in  London  which  resembles 
champagne  in  the  way  it  sparkles.  Such  stuff  is 
only  manufactured  for  folk  out  of  Wessex. 

A  Dorset  rustic,  on  being  reproved  by  a  magis- 
trate for  being  drunk  and  disorderly,  explained 
that  his  sad  plight  was  the  result-  of  taking  his 
liquor  the  wrong  way  up  ;  for,  said  he, 

"  Cyder  upon  beer  is  very  good  cheer, 
Beer  'pon  cyder  is  a  dalled  bad  rider ! " 

The  worthy  magistrate,  not  to  be  vanquished  by 
the  poetic  tippler,  told  him  to  remember — 

"  When  the  cyder's  in  the  can 
The  sense  is  in  the  man  ! 
When  the  cyder's  in  the  man 
The  sense  is  in  the  can." 

"  I  wish,"  said  an  old  shepherd  to  me,  with 
regret  in  his  voice,  "that  you  might  taste  such 
beer  as  my  mother  brewed  when  I  was  a  boy. 
Bread,  cheese  and  ingyens  [onions]  with  a  drop  of 
beer  was  parfuse  [ample]  for  a  meal  in  those  days, 
'ess  fay !  But  this  beer  they  sell  now  is  drefful 
wishee-washee  stuff.  I'll  be  dalled  if  I'll  drink  it ; 
'tez  water  bewitched  and  malt  begridged  [be- 
grudged]." In  Hodge's  uncouth  speech  are  found 


18        THOMAS    HARDY'S  DORSET 

many  words  and  usages  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
tongue,  though  it  is  not  now  relished  by  fastidious 
palates.  William  Barnes,  the  Dorset  poet,  enume- 
rates the  chief  peculiarities  of  the  Dorset  dialect 
in  his  books  on  speech  lore.  He  loved  the  odd 
phrases  of  children,  and  it  is  easy  to  see  why. 
For  a  child,  not  knowing  the  correct  method 
of  describing  a  thing  and  seeking  to  express  its 
meaning,  will  often  go  back  to  the  strong  old 
Anglo-Saxon  definitions.  The  child  can  often 
coin  very  apt  phrases.  As,  for  instance,  the 
Dorset  child  who  spoke  of  honey  as  "bee-jam." 
Barnes  was  delighted,  too,  with  the  boy  "who 
scrope  out  the  '  p '  in  '  psalm  '  'cose  it  didn't  spell 
not  hen." 

Many  of  the  humours  of  Arcady  have  been 
moulded  into  enigmatical  sayings  and  metaphors 
which  may  still  be  heard  on  the  lips  of  the  Dorset 
rustic : 

Tea  with  a  dash  of  rum  is  called  "milk  from 
the  brown  cow " ;  the  dead  are  "  put  to  bed  with 
a  shovel " ;  a  noisy  old  man  is  a  "  blaze  wig " ;  a 
fat  and  pompous  fellow  is  a  "blow-poke";  the 
thoughts  of  the  flighty  girl  go  a-"  bell-wavering  "  ; 
the  gallows  is  the  "  black  horse  foaled  by  an  acorn." 
The  Dorset  rustic  has  devised  many  names  for 
the  dullard:  "billy-buttons,"  "  billy- whiffler," 
"lablolly,"  "  ninnyhammer,"  and  "bluffle-head" 


DORSET  FOLK  AND  DORSET  WAYS     19 

are  some  of  them.  The  very  sound  of  such  names 
suggests  folly. 

"  Leer  "  is  a  curious  word  still  heard  in  Dorset 
and  Devon.  It  is  used  to  express  the  sense  of 
craving  produced  by  weakness  and  long  fasting. 
Perhaps  Shakespeare  used  Lear  in  a  metaphorical 
sense.  I  remember  once  hearing  a  Sussex  labourer 
speak  of  taking  his  "  coager  "  (cold  cheer  ?),  a  meal 
of  cold  victuals  taken  at  noon,  but  I  am  told  the 
mouthful  of  bread  and  cheese  taken  at  starting  in 
the  morning  by  the  Dorset  rustic  rejoices  in  the 
still  more  delightful  name  of  "  dew-bit." 

"  Crowder  "  (a  fiddler)  is  a  genuine  British  word, 
used  up  to  a  few  years  ago,  but  I  was  unable  to 
trace  anyone  using  it  in  Dorset  this  year.  In 
Cornwall  the  proverb,  "  If  I  can't  crowdy,  they 
won't  dance "  (meaning,  "  They  will  pass  me  by 
when  I  have  no  money  to  feast  and  entertain  my 
friends  "),  was  commonly  quoted  fifty  years  ago. 

Another  tale  regarding  unconscious  humour  is 
told  of  by  a  Dorset  rector  who  was  holding  a  Con- 
firmation class.  He  was  one  of  the  old-fashioned 
parsons  and  made  it  his  solemn  duty  to  call  at  the 
village  inn  and  drink  a  pint  of  ale  with  his  flock 
every  evening.  One  of  the  candidates  for  Confir- 
mation was  the  buxom  daughter  of  the  innkeeper, 
and  when  he  came  to  ask  her  the  usual  fixed 
question,  "  What  is  your  name  ? "  the  girl,  holding 


20        THOMAS   HARDY'S   DORSET 

her  head  on  one  side,  glanced  at  him  roguishly, 
and  said : 

"  Now  dawntee  tell  me  you  don't  know.  As  if 
you  diddent  come  into  our  place  every  night  and 
say,  *  Now,  Rubina,  my  dear,  give  me  a  half-pint 
of  your  best  ale  in  a  pint  pewter ! ' " 

The  story  of  village  sports  and  the  way  in  which 
the  rustic  was  wont  to  enjoy  himself  is  always 
interesting.  One  of  the  most  singular  forms  of 
contest  once  in  common  practice  in  the  west  of 
England  was  whiplegs.  The  procedure  of  this  pas- 
time consisted  of  the  men  standing  a  yard  or  so 
apart  and  lashing  each  other's  legs  with  long  cart 
whips  till  one  cried  "  Holt !  "  The  one  who  begged 
for  quarter  of  course  paid  for  the  ale.  The  rude 
leather  gaiters  worn  by  tranters  or  carters  fifty 
years  ago  would,  of  course,  take  much  of  the 
sting  out  of  the  whip  cuts. 

Thatch  survives  in  nearly  every  village,  and  one 
of  the  favoured  building  materials  is  stone  from 
the  Dorset  quarries.  At  Corfe  the  houses  are 
built  of  stone  from  foundation  to  roof,  and  stone 
slabs  of  immense  size  are  made  to  take  the  place 
of  tiles  and  slates.  We  find  "  cob  "  cottages  here 
and  there,  and  this  perhaps  is  the  most  ancient  of 
all  materials,  being  a  mixture  of  clay  or  mud  and 
chopped  straw.  It  is  piled  into  walls  of  immense 
thickness  and  strength,  and  then  plastered  and 


DORSET  FOLK  AND  DORSET  WAYS     21 

white-washed.  The  natives  in  Egypt  and  Pales- 
tine construct  their  village  homes  with  the  same 
materials,  and  the  result  is  not  only  wonderfully 
picturesque,  but  satisfactory  in  the  more  important 
respect  of  utility.  But  now  the  Dorset  people 
seldom  build  their  walls  of  "  cob  "  as  of  yore,  and 
yet  such  work  is  very  enduring.  As  an  old 
Devonshire  proverb  has  it :  "  Good  cob,  a  good 
hat,  and  a  good  heart  last  for  ever." 

The  beautiful  tract  of  coast-line  between  Seaton 
on  the  west  and  West  Bay  on  the  east  is  a  region 
of  great  charm  ;  for  here  will  be  found  all  the  most 
pleasing  features  of  the  sister  counties,  Dorset  and 
Devon.  The  gracious  greenery  and  combes  of 
Devon  trespass  over  the  border  at  Lyme  Regis 
and  so  bestow  on  this  nook  the  wooded  charm  of 
the  true  West  Country,  which  is  lacking  on  the 
chalky  grass  hills  of  other  parts  of  Dorset.  If 
the  coast  is  followed  from  Lyme  Regis  we  soon 
thread  our  way  into  the  wild  tangles  of  Devon. 
Things  have  changed  somewhat  in  these  days,  but 
still  the  true  son  of  Devon  carries  his  country 
with  him  wherever  he  goes ;  he  does  not  forget 
that  every  little  boy  and  girl  born  in  the  West  is 
breathed  over  by  the  "piskies."  But  modern 
education  has  just  about  killed  the  "  piskies,"  and 
there  are  no  more  ghosts  in  the  old  churchyards. 


22         THOMAS    HARDY'S   DORSET 

There  is  a  reason  for  the  non-appearance  of  spirits 
at  the  present  day.  They  have  ceased  to  come 
out  of  their  graves,  said  an  old  rustic,  "  ever  since 
there  was  some  alteration  made  in  the  burial 
service."  A  firm  belief  in  "  the  very  old  \m  "  is 
still,  however,  a  most  distinctive  article  of  the 
rustic  creed.  "  There  was  never  a  good  hand  at 
cards  if  the  four  of  clubs  was  in  it,"  said  a  rooted 
son  of  the  soil  to  me.  "  Why  ? "  I  asked.  "  Because 
it's  an  unlucky  card ;  it's  the  devil's  own  card." 
"  In  what  way  ? "  I  urged.  "  It's  the  old  'uris 
four-post  bedstead,"  was  the  reply. 

Another  rustic  remarked  in  all  seriousness  that 
he  did  think  wizards  "  ought  to  be  encouraged,  for 
they  could  tell  a  man  many  things  he  didn't  know 
as  would  be  useful  to  'un."  The  belief  in  witch- 
craft is  almost  dead,  but  it  is  not  so  many  years 
ago  that  it  was  firmly  held.  Thomas  Hardy's  tale, 
The  Withered  Arm,  it  will  be  recalled,  is  a  story 
of  witchcraft.  Farmer  Lodge  brought  home  a 
young  wife,  Gertrude.  A  woman  who  worked 
on  Lodge's  farm,  Rhoda  Brook  by  name,  had  a 
son  of  which  the  farmer  was  the  father.  Rhoda 
naturally  resented  the  marriage,  and  had  a  remark- 
able dream  in  which  Gertrude,  wrinkled  and  old, 
had  sat  on  her  chest  and  mocked  her.  She  seized 
the  apparition  by  the  left  arm  and  hurled  it  away 
from  her.  So  life-like  was  the  phantom  of  her 


DORSET  FOLK  AND  DORSET  WAYS     23 

brain  that  it  was  difficult  for  her  to  believe  that 
she  had  not  actually  struggled  with  Gertrude 
Lodge  in  the  flesh.  Some  time  afterwards  the 
farmer's  wife  complained  that  her  left  arm  pained 
her,  and  the  doctors  were  unable  to  give  her  any 
relief.  In  the  end  someone  suggested  that  she 
had  been  "  overlooked,"  and  that  it  was  the  result 
of  a  witch's  evil  influence.  She  was  told  to  ask 
the  advice  of  a  wise  man  named  Conjurer  Trendle 
who  lived  on  Egdon  Heath.  In  the  days  of  our 
forefathers  the  conjurer  was  an  important  char- 
acter in  the  village.  He  was  resorted  to  by  de- 
spairing lovers  ;  he  helped  those  who  were  under 
the  evil  eye  to  throw  off  the  curse,  and  disclosed 
the  whereabouts  of  stolen  goods.  His  answers, 
too,  were  given  with  a  somewhat  mystic  ambiguity. 
"  Own  horn  eat  own  corn  "  would  be  the  kind  of 
reply  a  person  would  receive  on  consulting  him 
about  the  disappearance  of,  say,  a  few  little  house- 
hold articles.  Well,  to  continue  the  story,  Rhoda 
Brook  accompanied  Gertrude  to  the  hut  of  Con- 
jurer Trendle,  who  informed  the  farmer's  wife  that 
Rhoda  had  "  overlooked  "  her.  Trendle  told  her 
that  the  evil  spell  might  be  dissolved  and  a  cure 
effected  by  laying  the  diseased  arm  on  the  neck 
of  a  newly  hanged  man.  During  the  absence  of 
her  husband  she  arranged  with  the  Casterbridge 
hangman  to  try  this  remedy.  On  the  appointed 


24         THOMAS    HARDY'S   DORSET 

day  she  arrived  at  the  gaol,  and  the  hangman  placed 
her  hand  upon  the  neck  of  the  body  after  the  exe- 
cution, and  she  drew  away  half  fainting  with  the 
shock.  As  she  turned  she  saw  her  husband  and 
Rhoda  Brook.  The  dead  man  was  their  son,  who 
had  been  hanged  for  stealing  sheep,  and  they 
harshly  accused  her  of  coming  to  gloat  over  their 
misfortune.  At  this  the  farmer's  wife  entirely 
collapsed,  and  only  lived  for  a  week  or  so  after. 

Thomas  Q.  Couch,  writing  in  Notes  and  Queries, 
26th  May  1855,  gives  a  pleasant  and  light-hearted 
article  on  the  prevailing  belief  in  the  existence  of 
the  piskies  in  the  West  Country : 

"  Our  piskies  are  little  beings  standing  midway 
between  the  purely  spiritual,  and  the  material, 
suffering  a  few  at  least  of  the  ills  incident  to 
humanity.  They  have  the  power  of  making 
themselves  seen,  heard,  and  felt.  They  interest 
themselves  in  man's  affairs,  now  doing  him  a  good 
turn,  and  anon  taking  offence  at  a  trifle,  and 
leading  him  into  all  manner  of  mischief.  The  rude 
gratitude  of  the  husbandman  is  construed  into  an 
insult,  and  the  capricious  sprites  mislead  him  on 
the  first  opportunity,  and  laugh  heartily  at  his 
misadventures.  They  are  great  enemies  of  sluttery, 
and  great  encouragers  of  good  husbandry.  When 
not  singing  and  dancing,  their  chief  nightly  amuse- 
ment is  in  riding  the  colts,  and  plaiting  their  manes, 


DORSET  FOLK  AND  DORSET  WAYS    25 

or  tangling  them  with  the  seed-vessels  of  the 
burdock.  Of  a  particular  field  in  this  neighbour- 
hood it  is  reported  that  the  farmer  never  puts  his 
horses  in  it  but  he  finds  them  in  the  morning  in 
a  state  of  great  terror,  panting,  and  covered  with 
foam.  Their  form  of  government  is  monarchical, 
as  frequent  mention  is  made  of  the  'king  of  the 
piskies.'  We  have  a  few  stories  of  pisky  change- 
lings, the  only  proof  of  whose  parentage  was  that 
'  they  didn't  goody '  [thrive].  It  would  seem  that 
fairy  children  of  some  growth  are  occasionally 
entrusted  to  human  care  for  a  time,  and  recalled  ; 
and  that  mortals  are  now  and  then  kidnapped, 
and  carried  off  to  fairyland ;  such,  according  to 
the  nursery  rhyme,  was  the  end  of  Margery 
Daw: 

"  *  See-saw,  Margery  Daw 

Sold  her  bed,  and  lay  upon  straw ; 
She  sold  her  straw,  and  lay  upon  hay, 
Piskies  came  and  carri'd  her  away.' 

"  A  disposition  to  laughter  is  a  striking  trait  in 
their  character.  I  have  been  able  to  gather  little 
about  the  personalities  of  these  creatures.  My  old 
friend  before  mentioned  used  to  describe  them  as 
about  the  height  of  a  span,  clad  in  green,  and 
having  straw  hats  or  little  red  caps  on  their  heads. 
Two  only  are  known  by  name,  and  I  have  heard 
them  addressed  in  the  following  rhyme : — 


26         THOMAS   HARDY'S   DORSET 

"  '  Jack  o'  the  lantern  !  Joan  the  wad  ! 

Who  tickled  the  maid  and  made  her  mad, 
Light  me  home,  the  weather's  bad.' 

"  But  times  have  greatly  changed.  The  old-world 
stories  in  which  our  forefathers  implicitly  believed 
will  not  stand  the  light  of  modem  education.  The 
pixies  have  been  banished  from  the  West,  and 
since  their  departure  the  wayward  farmer  can  no 
longer  plead  being  '  pisky-led '  on  market  nights. 

"  *  Pisky-led  ! '  exclaimed  an  old  Devon  lady  to 
her  bibulous  husband,  who  had  returned  home 
very  late,  pleading  he  had  been  led  astray  by  the 
piskies.  '  Now,  dawntee  say  nort  more  about 
it' — and  with  a  solemn  voice  and  a  shake  of  her 
bony  finger  she  added :  '  Pisky-led  is  whisky-led. 
That's  how  it  is  with  you  ! ' " 

May  with  its  wealth  of  resurrecting  life,  its  birds' 
songs,  its  flowers  uplifting  glad  heads,  is  a  beauti- 
ful month  in  Dorset ;  but  cider- making  time,  when 
the  trees  put  on  a  blaze  of  yellow  and  red  and  the 
spirit  of  serenity  and  peace  broods  over  everything, 
is  the  period  that  the  true  son  of  Dorset  loves  best. 
Cider-makin'  time — what  a  phrase  !  What  mem- 
ories !  Why,  then,  time  does  indeed  blot  and  blur 
the  golden  days  of  youth  !  I  had  almost  forgotten 
the  sweet  smell  of  pomace  and  the  cider  mill — 
things  which  loomed  large  in  the  days  when  I  was 


DORSET  FOLK  AND  DORSET  WAYS    27 

a  boy  down  Devon  way.  It  is  middle  age,  which 
Stevenson  likened  to  the  "  bear's  hug  of  custom 
squeezing  the  life  out  of  a  man's  soul,"  that  has 
robbed  me  of  the  power  to  conjure  up  those  happy 
days  from  the  depths  of  my  consciousness.  Cer- 
tainly some  virtue  within  me  has  departed — what  ? 
Well,  T  do  not  know,  but  I  cannot  recapture  the 
delirious  joy  of  the  apple  harvest  in  the  West.  It 
is  only  a  memory.  Perhaps  it  is  one  of  those 
things  which  will  return  unexpectedly,  and  by 
which  I  shall  remember  the  world  at  the  last. 

Well,  then,  when  I  was  a  boy,  cider  brewing  in 
Hovey's  barn  was  one  of  the  joys  of  life.  A  steam- 
engine  on  four  wheels  arrived  from  Exeter,  and 
pulleys  and  beltings  were  fixed  up  to  work  the 
old-fashioned  press.  Within  the  barn  a  rumbling 
machine  crushed  the  apples  (which  had  been  grow- 
ing mellow  in  the  loft  for  a  fortnight),  and  the 
press  noisily  descended  on  the  racks  of  pulp  and 
sent  the  liquid  into  the  tubs  with  a  swish  like  the 
fall  of  tropical  rain.  Outside  the  still  October  air 
was  broken  only  by  the  chug — chug — chug  of 
the  stationary  engine  and  the  mellow  voices  and 
laughter  of  the  farmers  who  delivered  their  apples 
and  received  in  exchange  barrels  of  cider.  The 
marc  from  the  cider-press  was  sometimes  fed  to 
cattle  combined  with  bran,  hay  and  chaff.  But  I 
suppose  that  was  an  old-fashioned  idea,  and  farmers 


28  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

to-day  would  ridicule  such  a  thing.  But  Farmer 
Hovey  was  a  keen-eyed  man  of  business — a  man 
who  could  farm  his  acres  successfully  in  the  face 
of  any  disaster.  How  I  wish  that,  now  grown  up, 
I  could  re-open  those  records,  the  book  of  his 
memory !  But  it  has  long  been  closed,  laid  away 
in  the  tree-shaded  churchyard  in  Fore  Street,  near 
a  flat  stone  commemorating  John  Starre : 

JOHN  STARRE. 

Starre  on  Hie 
Where  should  a  Starre  be 

But  on  Hie  ? 

Tho  underneath 

He  now  doth  lie 

Sleeping  in  Dust 

Yet  shall  he  rise 

More  glorious  than 

The  Starres  in  skies. 


Making  "  marc  bricks  "  at  Farmer  Hovey 's  was 
the  highest  pinnacle  of  my  desire.  It  was  one  of 
those  peculiarly  "  plashy  "  jobs  in  which  any  child 
would  delight.  One  could  get  thoroughly  coated 
from  head  to  foot  with  the  apple  pulp  in  about 
half-an-hour.  The  "  marc  "  was  made  into  bricks 
(about  a  pound  in  weight)  to  preserve  it.  It  was 
first  pressed  as  dry  as  possible,  made  into  cubes 
with  wooden  moulds,  and  stacked  in  an  airy  place 
to  dry.  Hovey  liked  these  bricks  for  fuel  in  the 


DORSET  FOLK  AND  DORSET  WAYS  29 

winter  months,  and  I  remember  they  made  a 
wonderfully  clear  fire.  It  was  while  making  up 
the  apple  pulp  into  bricks  that  my  brothers  and 
their  friends  caught  the  idea  of  the  game  of 
"hunting."  The  apple  pulp  was  first  made  up 
into  a  score  of  heavy,  wet  balls.  Having  drawn  lots 
as  to  who  should  be  the  hunter,  the  winner  would 
take  charge  of  the  ammunition  and  retire  to  the 
barn,  which  was  known  as  the  "hunters'  shack," 
while  the  other  boys  would  shin  up  the  orchard 
trees,  or  conceal  themselves  behind  walls,  ricks  and 
bushes.  A  short  start  was  allowed,  and  then  the 
hunter  sallied  forth  with  unrestricted  powers  to 
bombard  with  shot  and  shell  anyone  within  sight. 
The  first  one  who  made  his  way  home  to  the 
"  shack  "  became  the  next  hunter.  Many  a  satis- 
fying flap  on  the  back  of  the  neck  have  I  "got 
home "  with  those  balls  of  apple  pulp.  It  was  a 
very  primitive  game,  sometimes  a  very  painful 
one,  and  not  infrequently  it  ended  in  a  general 
hand-to-hand  fight.  The  game  was  certainly  an 
excellent  exercise  in  the  art  of  encountering  the 
hard  knocks  of  life  with  a  sunny  fortitude.  In 
1916  it  was  my  fortune  to  suffer  rather  a  sharp 
period  of  shell-fire  in  Palestine  with  one  of  the 
players  of  this  game.  My  old  playmate  turned 
to  me  and  yelled :  "  Hi,  there,  Bob !  Look  out  I 
These  coming  over  are  not  made  of  apple  pulp  ! " 


30  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

Then  the  smell  of  the  cider-press  came  full  and 
strong  on  the  night  air  of  the  desert,  and  England 
and  the  West  Country  came  back  to  me  in  the 
foolishness  of  dreams,  as  the  Garden  of  Hesperides 
or  any  other  Valley  of  Bliss  my  erring  feet  had 
trodden  in  heedless  mood. 

There  is  a  story  of  a  Dorset  vicar  who  was 
explaining  to  his  flock  the  meaning  of  miracles. 
He  saw  that  his  hearers  were  dull  and  inattentive, 
and  did  not  seem  to  grasp  what  he  was  saying,  so 
he  pointed  to  an  old  rascal  of  a  villager  who  always 
lived  riotously  yet  never  toiled,  and  said  in  a  loud 
voice :  "  I  will  tell  you  what  a  miracle  is.  Look 
at  old  Jan  Domeny,  he  hasn't  an  apple-tree  in 
his  garden,  and  yet  he  made  a  barrelful  of  cider 
this  October.  There's  a  miracle  for  you." 

While  cycling  out  of  Swanage  to  Corfe — a  back- 
breaking  and  tortuous  succession  of  hills — I  had  the 
misfortune  to  meet  a  wasp  at  full  speed  and  receive 
a  nasty  sting.  I  asked  a  little  girl  if  her  mother 
lived  near,  as  I  wished  to  get  some  ammonia  for 
it,  and  was  delighted  to  hear  the  child  call  to  her 
mother  through  an  open  window:  "  Lukee,  mother, 
a  wapsy  'ath  a  stinged  this  maister  'pon  'is  feace." 
Which  reminded  me  of  a  story  in  Akerman's  Wilt- 
shire Glossary  of  a  woman  who  wished  to  show  off 
her  lubberly  boy  to  some  old  dames,  and  accord- 
ingly called  him  to  say  his  alphabet.  She  pointed 


DORSET  FOLK  AND  DORSET  WAYS  31 

to  the  letter  "  A  "  and  asked  Tommy  to  name  it. 
"  Dang-my-ole-hat,  I  dwon't  know  'tin,"  said  the 
child,  scratching  his  head.  His  mother  passed  this 
letter  by  and  moved  the  point  of  her  scissors  to 
the  next  letter.  "  What  be  thuck  one,  Tommy  ? " 
"  I  knows  'un  by  zite,  but  I  can't  call  'un  by's 
neame,"  replied  the  boy.  "  What  is  that  thing 
as  goes  buzzing  about  the  gearden,  Tommy?" 
The  boy  put  his  head  on  one  side  and  con- 
sidered a  moment,  then  replied,  with  a  sly  grin : 
"  Wapsy !" 

William  Barnes  told  a  good  tale  of  a  West 
Country  parson  who  preached  in  the  rudest  ver- 
nacular. A  rich  and  selfish  dairyman  of  his  flock 
died,  and  in  place  of  the  customary  eulogy  at  the 

graveside,  he  said  :  "  Here  lies  old .  He  never 

did  no  good  to  nobody,  and  nobody  spake  no  good 
o'  he ;  put  him  to  bed  and  let's  prache  to  the 
living." 

And  here  is  a  good  story  related  to  me  by  a 
West  Country  vicar.  A  lively  old  lady  in  his 
parish  was  very  ill,  and  likely,  as  it  seemed,  to  die. 
The  vicar  called  on  her  and  talked  with  profes- 
sional eloquence  of  the  splendours  and  joys  of 
heaven.  But  the  bright  old  creature  had  no  fears 
for  the  future,  and  indeed  was  not  so  ill  as  they 
supposed.  "  Yes,  sir,"  she  said,  "  what  you  say 
may  be  very  true,  and  heaven  may  be  a  bobby- 


32  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

dazzling  place ;  but  I  never  was  one  to  go  a-bell- 
wavering — old  Dorset's  good  enough  for  me  ! " 

Inside  the  old  Dorset  farm-houses  there  is  much 
that  belongs  to  other  days  than  these.  Many  old 
homes  have  deep  porches,  with  stone  seats  on  each 
side,  which  lead  to  the  large  kitchen.  It  is  large 
because  it  was  built  in  the  days  when  the  farmer 
had  labourers  to  help  in  the  fields,  and  the  mistress 
of  the  house  had  women  servants  to  help  with  the 
spinning  and  the  poultry,  and  all  who  lived  under 
the  same  roof  had  their  meals  together  in  this 
room. 

Many  of  the  doors  are  as  large  and  solid  as 
church  doors,  and  one  that  I  saw  was  studded 
with  nails  and  secured  by  a  great  rough  wooden 
bar  drawn  right  across  it  into  an  iron  loop  on  the 
opposite  side  at  night,  and  in  the  day-time  thrust 
back  into  a  hole  in  the  thickness  of  the  wall.  But 
the  majority  are  more  homely  than  this  and  have 
only  a  latch  inside  raised  from  outside  by  a  leather 
thong,  or  by  "tirling  at  the  pin,"  as  in  the  old 
ballad. 


CHAPTER  II 

BARFORD  ST   MARTIN  TO   TISBURY   AND 
SHAFTESBURY 

And  she  is  very  small  and  very  green 
And  full  of  little  lanes  all  dense  with  flowers 
That  wind  along  and  lose  themselves  between 
Mossed  farms,  and  parks,  and  fields  of  quiet  sheep. 
And  in  the  hamlets,  where  her  stalwarts  sleep, 
Low  bells  chime  out  from  old  elm-hidden  towers. 

GEOFFREY  HOWAKD. 

STARTING  from  Salisbury,  the  pilgrim  of  the 
1^5  Hardy  country,  when  he  has  passed  through 
Barford  St  Martin  and  Burcome,  might  think  it 
worth  while  to  take  the  road  to  Tisbury  when 
he  arrives  at  Swallowcliff.  The  large  village  of 
Tisbury  is  situated  on  the  north  side  of  the  River 
Nadder,  on  rising  ground,  and  is  about  twelve  miles 
west  of  Salisbury.  There  is  much  of  interest  to 
be  seen,  and  the  spacious  church,  in  the  flat 
land  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill  and  close  to  the 
river,  is  well  worth  a  visit.  It  contains  several 
monuments  to  the  Arundels,  and  on  an  iron 
bracket  near  the  easternmost  window  is  a  good 
sixteenth-century  helmet,  which  has  been  gilded 
in  places  and  is  ornamented  with  a  small  band  of 
scroll-work  round  the  edges ;  there  is  an  added 
spike  for  a  crest.  It  is  a  real  helmet,  not  a  funeral 
c  33 


34  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

one ;  the  rivets  for  the  lining  remain  inside. 
Tradition  says  it  belonged  to  the  first  Lord 
Arundel  of  Wardour,  who  died  in  1639.  All  the 
seats  are  of  oak  and  modern,  but  against  the  walls 
is  some  good  linen-fold  panelling  of  the  seven- 
teenth century  or  very  late  sixteenth  century. 
In  the  sacrarium  is  a  fine  brass  to  Lawrence  Hyde 
of  West  Hatch.  He  was  the  great-grandfather 
of  Queen  Mary,  1689,  and  Queen  Anne,  1702. 
He  is  represented  standing  in  a  church  in  front  of 
his  six  sons,  facing  his  wife  and  four  daughters. 
The  inscription  is  : 

"  Here  lyeth  Lawrence  Hyde  of  West  Hatch 
Esqr.  who  had  issue  by  Anne  his  wife  six  sons 
and  four  daughters  and  died  in  the  year  of  the 
incarnation  of  Our  Lord  God  1590.  Beati  qui 
moriuntur  in  domino." 

The  churchyard  is  a  very  large  one,  and  the  old 
causeway  which  was  used  in  times  of  flood  is 
most  picturesque.  Two  massive  black  grave  slabs 
at  once  arrest  the  eye.  In  plain,  square  lead 
lettering  one  reads : 

JOHN  LOCKWOOD  KIPLING 

C.I.E. 
1837-1911. 

ALICE  MACDONALD 

WIFE  OF 

JOHN  LOCKWOOD  KIPLING 
1910 


ii 

35 


34 


BARFORD  ST  MARTIN  TO  TISBURY    35 

The  village  of  Tisbury  existed  in  the  seventh 
century,  the  earliest  extant  spelling  of  the  name 
being  "  Tissebiri  "  or  "  Dysseburg,"  and  there 
was  a  monastery  over  which  an  abbot  named 
Wintra  ruled  about  647.  Mr  Paley  Baildon,  F.S.A., 
who  has  devoted  considerable  time  to  the  in- 
vestigation of  the  origin  of  place  names,  thinks 
that  without  doubt  Tisbury  is  derived  from 
Tissa's-burgh,  Tissa  or  Tyssa  being  a  personal 
name  and  owner  of  the  estate  ;  hence  it  came  to 
be  known  as  Tissa's-burgh. 

It  was  at  Tisbury  that  Rudyard  Kipling  wrote 
some  of  his  stories  after  leaving  India,  and  there 
can  be  little  doubt  that  after  some  years  of  absence 
in  the  East  the  return  to  things  desperately  dear 
and  familiar  and  intimate  exercised  a  strong  effect 
upon  his  thoughts  and  writing,  and  prepared  a 
way  for  his  delicately  fashioned  pictures  of  the 
Old  Country  in  Puck  of  Pook's  Hill  and  Rewards 
and  Fairies. 

At  Barford  St  Martin  I  had  the  misfortune  to 
burst  the  back  tube  and  tyre  of  my  motor  cycle, 
and  that  is  the  real  reason  I  arrived  at  Tisbury. 
I  wheeled  my  machine  to  the  Green  Dragon, 
hoping  for  a  lift  to  a  place  where  I  could  get  fixed 
up  with  a  new  tyre.  A  large  wagon  was  stand- 
ing outside  the  inn,  and  as  it  bore  the  name, 
Stephen  Weekes,  Tisbury,  upon  it,  I  penetrated 


30  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

to  the  bar-parlour,  thinking  that  I  might  induce 
the  driver  to  take  me  with  the  machine  into  that 
village. 

The  owner  of  the  wagon  was  sitting  inside 
with  two  large  bottles  of  stout  before  him.  He 
was  a  burly  fellow  in  shirt-sleeves  and  a  broad 
straw  hat.  I  saw  he  was  fifty  or  thereabouts — 
not  a  mere  wagoner,  but  a  small  farmer  who 
would  have  answered  to  the  description  of  Farmer 
Oak  by  Thomas  Hardy  in  his  opening  to  Far 
from  the  Madding  Crowd.  He  was  of  a  more 
jovial  type  than  most  Dorset  men  I  have  met, 
and  after  submitting  to  his  fire  of  questions  I 
asked  him  gently,  in  jest,  if  he  would  require  any 
assistance  with  his  two  bottles. 

"Aye,"  he  answered,  quizzing  at  me  with  his 
merry  eyes.  "  I  shall  require  another  bottle  to 
assist  me,  I  think." 

He  looked  at  me  a  moment  with  seriousness 
and  then  he  laughed  to  the  point  of  holding  his 
sides.  He  slapped  his  knees,  shouted,  roared 
and  almost  rolled  with  merriment.  I  looked  at 
the  farmer,  not  without  a  feeling  of  admiration. 
It  was  perhaps  a  very  poor  jest,  you  will  say. 
But  how  well  a  simple  jest  became  the  fellow ; 
how  gloriously  he  laughed.  Down  in  my  heart 
I  knew  that  no  man  could  laugh  as  he  did  and  at 
the  same  time  possess  a  mean  mind.  He  was  as 


BARFORD  ST  MARTIN  TO  TISBURY    37 

broad  as  the  earth,  and  his  laughter  was  just  as 
limitless.  Talk  of  good  things :  there  may  be 
something  finer  than  a  hearty  laugh — there  may 
be — perhaps  .  .  . 

At  this  moment  he  called  for  two  glasses,  and 
explained  to  the  landlord  that  now  he  would 
drink  out  of  a  glass,  seeing  that  he  was  in 
company. 

44  Then  tell  me,"  I  said,  "  why  do  you  drink 
out  of  the  bottle  when  you  are  alone  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  don't  get  no  virtue  out  of  the  beer 
'thout  you  drink  it  out  of  the  bottle.  No,  fay  ! 
Half  of  the  strength  is  gone  like  winky  when  you 
pour  it  into  a  glass." 

"  I  believe  you  are  right,"  I  said,  "  and  I 
especially  commend  you  for  drinking  beer.  Ale 
is  a  great  and  generous  creature ;  it  contains 
all  health,  induces  sleep  o'  nights,  titillates  the 
digestion  and  imparts  freshness  to  the  palate." 

"  'Tis  the  only  drink  that  will  go  with  bread 
and  cheese  and  pickling  cabbage,"  dashed  in  the 
farmer. 

"  'Tis  a  pity,"  I  said,  "  that  so  many  workers 
in  London  take  bread  and  cheese  with  tea  and 
coffee,  for  there  is  no  staying  power  in  such  a 
mixture." 

44  It  can't  be  good,"  he  shouted.  44  It  can't  be 
healthy." 


38  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

The  farmer's  name  was  Mr  Weekes— the  same 
as  it  was  painted  on  the  wagon  outside— and  he 
said  that  he  would  be  very  glad  to  take  me  with 
my  machine  into  Tisbury,  where  there  was  a 
motor  garage.  He  made  an  extraordinarily  shrill 
noise  with  his  mouth  and  a  fine  greyhound  that 
had  been  sleeping  beneath  the  table  bounded  up. 

"This  long-dog,"  said  Mr  Weekes,  "is  a 
wonderfully  good  dog— the  best  dog  of  his  kind 
in  the  world." 

Mr  Weekes  is  never  half-hearted  about  things. 
His  enthusiasm  is  prodigious.  He  is  like  a  human 
hurricane  when  he  launches  upon  any  of  his  pet 
subjects.  At  once  he  fell  to  explaining  the  points 
and  final  perfection  of  a  perfect  greyhound.  I 
remember  a  quaint  rhyme  he  quoted,  which  is 
perhaps  worth  repetition  here  : 

"  The  shape  of  a  good  greyhound  is  :  — 
A  head  like  a  snake,  a  neck  like  a  drake  ; 
A  back  like  a  beam,  a  belly  like  a  bream  ; 
A  foot  like  a  cat,  a  tail  like  a  rat." 

The  farmer,  then,  I  say,  was  not  the  kind  of 
man  to  qualify  any  of  his  remarks,  and  he  re- 
asserted his  claim  that,  in  the  concrete,  in  the 
existent  state  of  things,  his  dog  was  the  best  that 
breathed. 

This  he  said  for  the  sixth  time,  drank  up  his 


s  -5 

E    I 


§S 


1    I 

31 


BARFORD  ST  MARTIN  TO  T1SBURY    39 

stout,  and  after  helping  me  to  lift  my  machine 
into  the  wagon,  climbed  up  on  to  his  seat,  I  by 
his  side.  He  then  flicked  his  horses  gently  with 
his  whip  and  they  began  to  amble  along  with 
the  wagon.  On  the  way  to  Tisbury  the  farmer 
talked  with  the  greatest  friendliness,  and  when 
we  arrived  at  his  farm  he  insisted  on  bringing  me 
in  to  supper.  He  showed  me  his  orchard,  barns 
and  a  very  fine  apple-tree  of  which  he  was 
enormously  proud,  and  pulled  me  an  armful  of 
the  finest  apples  he  could  find. 

"  Take  these  apples  home,"  he  said,  watching 
me  with  his  merry  eyes ;  "  they  make  the  best 
apple  pies  in  the  world." 

An  armful  of  apples  of  prodigious  size  is  not 
exactly  the  kind  of  thing  one  welcomes  with  a 
broken-down  motor  cycle  two  hundred  miles 
from  home,  but  I  dared  not  refuse  them,  and  so 
I  stuffed  them  into  all  my  pockets.  Finally  my 
good  friend  insisted  on  keeping  me  under  his  roof 
for  the  night. 

After  my  machine  had  been  repaired  next 
morning  I  went  on  my  way,  thinking  what  a  fine, 
merry,  hospitable  fellow  the  Dorset  yeoman  is — 
if  you  only  approach  him  with  a  little  caution. 

I  left  my  friend  the  yeoman  farmer  with  regret, 
regained  the  main  road  and  soon  came  into 


40  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

Shaftesbury,  or  Shaston,  as  it  is  commonly  called. 
This  town  is  very  curiously  placed,  on  the  narrow 
ridge  of  a  chalk  hill  which  projects  into  the 
lower  country,  and  rises  from  it  with  abruptness. 
Hence  an  extensive  landscape  is  seen  through  the 
openings  between  the  houses,  and  from  com- 
manding points  the  eye  ranges  over  the  greater 
part  of  Dorset  and  Somerset.  To  add  to  the 
beauty  of  the  position,  the  scarped  slope  of  the 
hill  is  curved  on  its  southern  side.  Shaftesbury 
is  one  of  the  oldest  towns  in  the  kingdom.  Its 
traditions  go  back  to  the  time  of  King  Lud, 
who,  according  to  Holinshed,  founded  it  about 
1000  B.C.  A  more  moderate  writer  refers  its  origin 
to  Cassivellaunus.  However,  it  is  certain  that 
Alfred,  in  the  year  880,  founded  here  a  nunnery, 
which  in  aftertimes  became  the  richest  in  England, 
and,  as  the  shrine  of  St  Edward  the  Martyr— 
whose  body  was  removed  to  this  town  from 
Ware  ham —the  favourite  resort  of  pilgrims. 
Asser,  who  wrote  the  Life  of  Alfred,  has  described 
Shaftesbury  as  consisting  of  one  street  in  his  time. 
In  that  of  Edward  the  Confessor  it  possessed 
three  mints,  sure  evidence  of  its  importance  ;  and 
shortly  after  the  Conquest  it  had  no  less  than 
twelve  churches,  besides  chapels  and  chantries, 
and  a  Hospital  of  St  John. 
The  view  from  the  Castle  Hill  at  the  west  end 


BARFORD  ST  MARTIN  TO  TISBURY    41 

of  the  ridge  is  very  extensive,  and  from  all  parts 
of  the  town  you  come  unexpectedly  upon  narrow 
ravines  which  go  tumbling  down  to  the  plain 
below  in  the  most  headlong  fashion.  The  chief 
trouble  in  the  olden  days  was  the  water  supply. 
On  this  elevated  chalk  ridge  the  town  was  obvi- 
ously far  removed  from  the  sources  of  spring 
water,  and  the  supply  of  this  necessary  article 
had  been  from  time  out  of  mind  brought  on 
horses'  backs  from  the  parish  of  Gillingham. 
Hence  arose  a  curious  custom  which  was  annu- 
ally observed  here  for  a  great  number  of  years. 
On  the  Monday  before  Holy  Thursday  the  mayor 
proceeded  to  Enmore  Green,  near  Motcombe, 
with  a  large,  fanciful  broom,  or  byzant,  as  it  was 
called,  which  he  presented  as  an  acknowledgment 
for  the  water  to  the  steward  of  the  manor,  to- 
gether with  a  calf's  head,  a  pair  of  gloves,  a  gallon 
of  ale  and  two  penny  loaves  of  wheaten  bread. 
This  ceremony  being  concluded,  the  byzant — 
which  was  usually  hung  with  jewels  and  other 
costly  ornaments — was  returned  to  the  mayor 
and  carried  back  to  the  town  in  procession. 

About  1816  the  Mayor  of  Shaftesbury  refused 
to  carry  out  the  custom,  and  the  people  of  Enmore 
were  so  put  out  by  his  omission  in  this  respect 
that  they  filled  up  the  wells.  The  Shastonians 
paid  twopence  for  a  horse-load  of  water  and  a 


42  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

halfpenny  for  a  pail  "if  fetched  upon  the  head." 
I  heard  a  rather  amusing  story  of  the  water- 
carrying  days.  A  rustic  who  had  been  working 
on  the  land  all  day  in  the  rain  came  "  slewching  " 
up  Gold  Hill,  feeling  very  unhappy  and  out  of 
temper.  At  the  summit  of  the  hill  he  passed  by  the 
crumbling  church  of  St  Peter's,  but  did  not  pass 
the  Sun  and  Moon  Inn.  Here  he  cheered  his 
drooping  spirits  with  a  measure  of  old-fashioned 
Shaftesbury  XXX  stingo,  and,  thus  strengthened, 
he  went  on  his  way  home,  expecting  to  be  wel- 
comed with  a  warm,  savoury  supper.  But  the 
news  of  his  call  at  the  inn  had  reached  his  wife 
before  he  arrived  home,  and  being  rather  an  ill- 
natured  person,  she  decided  to  punish  him  for 
loitering  on  his  way.  "  Oh,"  she  said  to  him,  "  as 
you  are  so  wet  already,  just  you  take  this  steyan 
[earthenware  pot]  and  fill  it  with  water  at  Toute 
Hill  spring,  and  don't  go  loafing  at  the  Sun  and 
Moon  again."  The  rustic  took  up  the  pitcher 
without  a  word,  filled  it  and  returned  to  his  sour 
housewife ;  but  instead  of  putting  the  pitcher 
down,  he  hurled  the  contents  over  her,  saying: 
"  Now  you  are  wet  too,  so  you  can  go  to  the  spring 
and  fetch  the  water." 

Bimport  is  a  wide  and  comfortable  street  which 
skirts  the  north  crest  of  Castle  Hill.  It  is  a  street 
of  honest  stone  houses,  and  readers  of  Jude  the 


BARFORD  ST  MARTIN  TO  TISBURY    43 

Obscure  will  look  here  for  Phillotson's  school  and 
the  "  little  low  drab  house  in  which  the  wayward 
Sue  wrought  the  wrecking  of  her  life."  Their 
house,  "  old  Grove's  Place  " — now  called  "  Ox 
House  " — is  not  difficult  to  find.  As  you  come 
up  from  the  Town  Hall  and  Market  House  to  the 
fork  of  the  roads  which  run  to  Motcombe  and 
East  Stower,  Bimport  turns  off  to  the  left,  and  a 
hundred  or  so  yards  down  is  Grove's  Place,  with 
a  projecting  porch  and  mullioned  windows.  It 
was  here  that  Sue  in  a  momentary  panic  jumped 
out  of  the  window  to  avoid  Phillotson.  The  name 
of  the  house  derives  from  that  of  a  former  in- 
habitant mentioned  in  an  old  plan  of  Shaftesbury. 
Poor,  highly  strung  Sue  Bridehead,  with  her 
neurotic  temperament,  could  not  throw  off  the 
oppressiveness  of  the  old  house.  "  We  don't  live 
in  the  school,  you  know,"  said  she,  "  but  in 
that  ancient  dwelling  across  the  way,  called  old 
Grove's  Place.  It  is  so  antique  and  dismal  that 
it  depresses  me  dreadfully.  Such  houses  are 
very  well  to  visit,  but  not  to  live  in.  I  feel 
crushed  into  the  earth  by  the  weight  of  so 
many  previous  lives  there  spent.  In  a  new  place 
like  these  schools  there  is  only  your  own  life  to 
support." 

The  village  of  Marnhull  is  situated  in  the  Vale 
of  Blackmoor,  six  miles  from  Shaftesbury.     It  is 


44  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

the  "  Marlott  "  of  Hardy's  novel  Tess,  the  village 
home  of  the  Durbeyfield  family.  It  contains 
little  of  interest.  The  Pure  Drop  Inn,  where 
"  there's  a  very  pretty  brew  in  tap,"  may  be  the 
"  Crown. "  Here  John  Durbeyfield  kept  up  Tess's 
wedding  day  "  as  well  as  he  could,  and  stood  treat 
to  everybody  in  the  parish,  and  John's  wife  sung 
songs  till  past  eleven  o'clock."  There  is  a  Pure 
Drop  Inn  at  Wooten  Glanville  and  another  at 
Wareham  ;  one  of  these  most  probably  suggested 
the  name.  The  fine  church  is  of  the  eighteenth- 
century  Gothic  (1718),  and  it  has  often  been  re- 
garded by  strangers  as  being  three  hundred  years 
earlier.  The  font  bowl,  late  Norman,  was  un- 
earthed in  1898,  also  the  rood  staircase  and  squint 
and  the  piscina.  Some  ancient  alabaster  effigies, 
ascribed  to  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth  century 
and  representing  a  man  in  armour  and  two  female 
figures,  are  placed  on  a  cenotaph  in  the  north 
aisle.  Some  authorities  claim  that  they  represent 
Thomas  Howard,  Lord  Bindon,  and  his  wives,  and 
are  of  a  later  date.  Nash  Court,  a  little  to  the 
north,  is  a  fine  Elizabethan  mansion,  formerly 
the  seat  of  the  Husseys. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   VALE  OF  BLACKMOOR 

MY  motor  cycle  had  carried  me  without  a 
hitch  from  London  to  Melbury  Abbas — 
then  Fortune  scowled  on  me.  With  ridiculous 
ease  I  had  rolled  along  the  roads  all  day,  and  I 
had  been  tempted  to  ride  through  the  warm 
autumnal  darkness  till  I  came  to  the  Half  Moon 
Inn  at  Shaftesbury,  where  the  roads  fork  away 
to  Melbury  Hill,  Blandford  and  Salisbury.  But 
a  few  hundred  yards  out  of  Melbury  Abbas,  and 
then  Fortune's  derisive  frown.  From  a  deceptive 
twist  in  the  road  I  dashed  into  a  gully,  and 
my  machine  bumped  and  rattled  and  groaned 
like  a  demon  caught  in  a  trap.  It  performed 
other  antics  with  which  this  chronicle  has  no 
concern,  and  then  refused  to  move  an  inch 
farther. 

But  the  song  of  a  nightingale  in  a  grove  of 
elms  near  the  road  made  full  amends  for  my 
ill  luck !  It  is  beautiful  to  hear  his  sobbing, 
lulling  notes  when  one  is  alone  on  a  dark  night, 
and  Shelley  was  not  far  wrong  in  styling  it 
voluptuous. 
45 


46  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

"  I  heard  the  raptured  nightingale 
Tell  from  yon  elmy  grove  his  tale 

Of  jealousy  and  love, 
In  thronging  notes  that  seem'd  to  fall 
As  faultless  and  as  musical 

As  angels'  strains  above. 
So  sweet,  they  cast  on  all  things  round 
A  spell  of  melody  profound  : 
They  charm 'd  the  river  in  his  flowing, 
They  stay'd  the  night- wind  in  its  blowing." 

I  lit  a  pipe  and  made  myself  comfortable  on 
the  green  bank  of  the  roadside.  It  was  simply  a 
matter  of  waiting  for  a  carter  to  give  me  a  lift. 
Soon  I  heard  footsteps  approaching  me.  "  Good- 
evening,"  said  a  friendly,  quavering  voice,  and  a 
little,  round-faced  gentleman  in  a  grey  overcoat 
and  straw  hat  emerged  from  the  shadows.  I 
questioned  him  as  to  the  distance  of  the  nearest 
inn  or  cottage  where  I  could  get  a  shelter  for  the 
night,  and  explained  how  my  machine  had  failed 
me. 

"  The  nearest  inn  is  two  miles  away.  I'm 
afraid  they  do  not  accommodate  travellers,"  he 
replied. 

"  Is  this  your  home  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh  yes !  Woolpit  House  is  just  beyond 
those  elms.  I  live  there.  1  am  not  a  native  of 
these  parts.  I  have  only  lived  there  for  the  last 
six  months.  I  am  sorry  I  came  here,  for  the  place 


THE  VALE  OF  BLACKMOOR        47 

does  not  suit  me.  Do  you  care  to  leave  your 
motor  cycle  ?  You  are  most  welcome  to  a  bed 
in  my  house,"  he  added  with  cheerful  simplicity. 

"  I  should  be  greatly  indebted  to  you.  But 
shan't  I  be  a  bother  to  your  family  at  this  time  of 
the  night  ?  " 

"  I  have  none." 

I  wheeled  my  machine  through  a  gate  and  left 
it  the  other  side  of  the  hedge,  where  I  hoped  it 
would  be  safe  till  morning.  We  came  to  the 
house  across  a  footpath — a  small  stone-gabled 
sixteenth-century  building.  A  whisp  of  mist 
from  a  bubbling  stream  circled  the  place  and  gave 
it  an  air  of  isolation.  We  entered  a  lit  room, 
which  was  of  solemn  aspect,  and  my  friend  gave 
me  a  deep-seated  chair. 

"  Are  you  serious  in  saying  that  you  do  not  like 
Dorset  ?  "  I  questioned. 

The  little  man  smiled  quietly,  sadly. 

"  It  is  not  Dorset  exactly.  But  since  I  came  to 
live  here  I  have  become  a  bundle  of  nerves.  It  is 
nothing— I  think  it's  nothing." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  only  think — I  only  wonder " 

44  Yes  ?  " 

44  This  is  such  an  old  house.  All  sorts  of  things 
must  have  happened  here.  And  from  the  first 
moment  I  came  into  the  place  I  had  a  sudden 


48  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

sensation  of  there  being  something  unseen  and 
unheard  near  me.  There  is  an  essence  in  this 
house— an  influence  which  stifles  all  laughter  and 
joy.  I  wonder  if  you  will  feel  it  as  I  do  !" 

"  Bit  creepy,"  I  said,  and  at  the  same  time  I 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  old  fellow  was  a 
little  eccentric,  and  this  idea  of  the  house  being 
on  the  left  side  of  the  sun  was  merely  a  foolish 
weakness. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  musing;  " queer,  isn't  it  ? 
But  you  don't  know  the  queerest." 

He  pondered  a  moment,  then  suddenly  he 
wagged  his  crooked  fore-finger  at  me  and  said  : 
"It  is  something  more  than  an  essence — it  is 
stronger.  The  other  evening  when  it  was  getting 
dusk  I  got  up  from  my  chair  to  light  the  candles, 
and  I  saw,  as  I  thought,  someone  about  six  yards 
from  that  window— outside  on  the  flagstones. 
It  was  more  than  a  shadowy  shape.  So  without 
waiting  I  ran  out  into  the  hall  and  opened  the 
front  door,  feeling  sure  I  should  see  a  tramp  or 
someone  there.  But  the  drive  was  quite  empty— 
I  only  looked  out  into  the  dusk.  But  as  I  looked 
out  something  that  I  could  not  see  slipped  through 
and  passed  into  the  house.  The  same  kind  of 
thing  has  happened  a  dozen  times." 

The  little  old  man  passed  his  hand  over  his  brow. 

"  Here,"  I  said  rather  brusquely,  "  you're  not 


THE  VALE  OF  BLACKMOOR         49 

well ;  you're  just  a  bundle  of  nerves.  Look  here, 
sir,  you  want  a  holiday." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  wiping  his  brow.  "  I  try  to 
tell  myself  that  it  is  all  rot  ...  all  my  fancy. 
But  what  would  you  do  ?  " 

"  See  a  doctor,"  I  replied. 

"  Doctors  ?  .  .  .  Bah  !  I'll  tell  you,"  he  whis- 
pered. "  I  want  a  ghost-doctor  to  rid  me  of 
this  invisible,  pushing  thing.  It  gets  stronger 
every  time !  At  first  it  just  slipped  through  ; 
just  a  bit  more  than  a  gust  of  wind.  But  now 
it's  getting  compact.  To-night  it  drove  me  out  of 
the  house  :  that  was  how  I  came  to  be  wandering 
out  on  the  highroad  like  a  lost  soul." 

"  But  .  .  .  goodness,  sir,  such  a  thing  out- 
rages reason." 

"  You  can  say  what  you  will,  but  it  is  there, 
and  it  is  growing  tangible.  Last  night  I  could 
distinguish  his  features  as  he  came  up  close  to 
the  window.  He  smiled  at  me,  but  the  smile  was 
one  of  inscrutable  evil.  He  resents  me  being  in 
this  house.  I  shall  have  to  abandon  it." 

"  This  little  man  is  either  off  his  head,  or 
worse,"  I  said  to  myself. 

In  spite  of  the  warmth  of  the  room,  I  felt 
myself  shiver. 

At  that  moment  I  heard  the  sound  of  a  stealthy 
footstep  outside  the  door. 


50  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

The  little  old  man  jumped  up. 

"  I  say,"  he  said  in  an  odd  voice,  "  did  you 
hear?" 

I  pretended  I  had  not  heard. 

"  Ah,  you  didn't  .  .  .  and,  of  course,  you 
didn't  feel  anything.  It  must  have  been  my 
imagination." 

A  wave  of  shame  ran  over  me.  I  knew  that  I 
had  not  the  courage  to  listen  to  the  old  fellow's 
story  any  longer.  I  finished  my  whisky- and- soda 
and  stood  up. 

"It  is  very  kind  of  you,  sir,  to  offer  me  a 
lodging  for  the  night.  I  am  feeling  rather 
weary  and  would  like  to  go  to  bed  now,  if  it 
is  convenient  to  you." 

"  Come  then,  sir,"  he  said,  with  his  old-fashioned 
politeness,  and  he  walked  towards  the  door. 

Then  I  saw  the  thing.  There  wasn't  a  shadow 
of  doubt  about  it.  I  saw  the  little  old  man  open 
the  door.  The  next  moment  he  started  back. 
Then  he  thrust  forward  with  his  body,  and  I 
could  see  him  bearing  against  something.  He 
swayed,  physically,  as  a  man  sways  when  he  is 
wrestling.  A  second  after  he  was  free. 

"  Well,  you've  seen  it — what  do  you  think  of 
it  ?  "  he  said  presently,  as  I  followed  him  into 
the  hall.  His  face  had  turned  cloudy  whitish 
grey. 


THE  VALE  OF  BLACKMOOR          51 

I  laughed,  but  the  full  horror  of  it  had  soaked 
into  me. 

I  followed  my  host  up  a  series  of  stairs.  He 
carried  a  candlestick,  with  his  arm  extended,  so 
as  to  give  me  a  guiding  light.  The  old  house  was 
dim  and  chilly  in  its  barrenness.  He  stopped  at 
a  door  in  a  long,  narrow  corridor  and  set  the 
candlestick  down. 

"  This  is  your  room." 

With  a  gentle  bow  and  a  kindly  smile  he 
opened  the  door  for  me. 

"  Good-night,  sir.  Can  you  see  your  way 
down  ?  "  1  asked. 

"I  have  a  candle  in  my  pocket." 

He  lit  it  at  mine.  Another  quiet,  friendly  smile, 
and  I  watched  him  out  of  sight  along  the  corridor. 

I  stood  perfectly  still  for  a  moment  just  inside. 
Then  a  curious  feeling  of  something  dreadful 
being  close  at  hand  was  present  in  my  mind.  Of 
course  it  was  all  humbug,  and  my  nerves  were 
deceiving  me.  But  I  could  not  shake  myself  free 
from  the  notion  that  I  was  not  alone. 

There  is  an  essence  in  all  these  old  dwellings 
that  comes  out  to  meet  one  on  a  first  visit.  I 
recognise  the  truth  of  that — for  how  often  have 
I  noticed  how,  under  one  roof,  one  breathes  a 
friendly  air,  and  under  another  queerness  runs 
across  the  spine  like  the  feet  of  hurrying  mice. 


52  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

In  this  house  there  was  something  sinister  and 
unwholesome.  I  cursed  my  luck  for  driving  me 
into  such  a  place.  A  night  spent  under  a  hedge 
would  have  been  more  desirable.  However,  I 
turned  into  bed  and  passed  rather  a  broken  night, 
with  stretches  of  dream-haunted  sleep  inter- 
spersed with  startled  awakenings.  The  old  house 
seemed  to  be  full  of  muffled  movements,  and  once 
(timid  fool  that  I  was)  I  could  have  sworn  that 
the  handle  of  my  door  turned.  It  was  with  a 
considerable  qualm,  I  must  confess,  I  lit  my 
candle  and  opened  the  door.  But  the  gallery 
was  quite  empty.  I  went  back  to  bed  and  slept 
again,  and  when  next  I  woke  the  sun  was  stream- 
ing into  my  room,  and  the  sense  of  trouble  that 
had  been  with  me  ever  since  entering  the  house 
last  evening  had  gone. 

When  I  arrived  at  the  breakfast-table  the  little 
old  man  was  seated  behind  the  coffee-pot,  and  his 
face  was  quite  glowing  and  wreathed  in  smiles. 
Morning  had  brought  a  flood  of  hard  common  sense 
to  him,  as  clear  as  the  crisp  sunshine  that  filled 
the  room.  He  had  already  begun  and  was  con- 
suming a  plateful  of  eggs  and  bacon  with  the  most 
prosaic  and  healthy  appetite. 

"  Slept  well  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Moderately,"  I  said,  feeling  ashamed  of  my 
timidity  in  the  morning  light. 


THE  VALE  OF  BLACKMOOR  53 

"  I  am  afraid  I  talked  rather  wildly  last  night," 
remarked  the  little  man,  in  a  voice  pregnant  with 
reason. 

"  Yes— an  amazing  quantity  of  nonsense,"  I 
consented.  "  Where  did  you  learn  hypnotism  ?  " 

My  host's  brow  clouded  slightly. 

"  You  see,"  I  continued,  "  you  must  have 
thrown  a  spell  over  me,  for  I  really  believed  in 
your  ghost  story,  and  now  I  have  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  you  were  joking." 

"  Never  mind.     It  doesn't  matter." 

But  the  little  man  didn't  look  up  from  his 
plate.  He  only  shook  his  head. 

Well  (to  get  on),  we  finished  breakfast.  After 
smoking  a  pipe  on  the  verandah  with  my  host  (who 
might  have  been  a  wizard  for  aught  I  knew,  at 
least  this  was  my  fantastic  thought)  I  went  out 
and  looked  at  my  machine,  and  was  fortunate 
enough  after  an  hour's  tinkering  to  get  her  going 
again.  The  little  man  insisted  that  I  should  take 
a  small  glass  of  some  liqueur  brandy  of  which  he 
was  very  proud.  So  I  took  some  of  the  wonderful 
stuff — strong,  sufficient,  soul-filling,  part  of  the 
good  rich  earth — and  went  out  into  the  sunlight, 
and  taking  a  foot-bridge  over  running  water  put 
myself  out  of  the  little  wizard's  power. 
•  «...«• 

About  six  months  later  I  was  hunting  in  an  old 


54  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

bookseller's  shop  in  Salisbury  when  by  something 
more  than  a  mere  coincidence  I  came  across  a 
small  booklet  called  Twenty-five  Years  of  Village 
Life,  dealing  with  the  district  around  Shaftes- 
bury,  and  I  read  : 

"  It  is  somewhat  remarkable  that,  during  the 
last  ten  years,  two  vicars  of  the  parish  have  died 
under  somewhat  mysterious  circumstances  at 
Woolpit  House.  It  is  not  necessary  to  go  into 
details  here,  but  many  wild  stories  about  this 
picturesque  old  house  are  told  around  the  country- 
side. The  country  people  have  an  odd  way  of 
accounting  for  the  ill  fortune  that  has  always 
attended  Woolpit  House.  They  say  that  it  was 
built  by  the  order  of  a  dissolute  old  nobleman 
who  had  sold  his  soul  to  the  devil,  and  in  order  to 
pass  bad  luck  to  all  his  successors  who  might 
occupy  the  mansion  he  caused  grave-stones  from 

churchyard  to  be  rooted  up  and  built  into 

the  walls." 

The  Vale  of  Blackmoor  or  Blackmore,  watered 
by  the  upper  part  of  the  Stour,  was  formerly 
known  as  the  White  Hart  Forest,  but  is  now  a  strip 
of  pasturage  celebrated  among  farmers  as  one  of 
the  richest  of  grazing  lands.  Its  marshy  surface 
is  speckled  by  herds  of  lazy  cattle,  and  by  busier 
droves  of  pigs,  of  which  this  vale  supplies  to 


THE  VALE  OF  BLACKMOOR          55 

London  a  larger  number  than  either  of  the 
counties  of  Somerset  and  Devon.  Blackmoor  is 
also  known  for  the  vigorous  growth  of  its  oaks, 
which  thrive  on  the  tenacious  soil.  Loudon  says 
it  was  originally  called  White  Hart  Forest  from 
Henry  III.  having  here  hunted  a  beautiful  white 
hart  and  spared  its  life ;  and  Fuller  gives  the 
sequel  to  the  tale.  He  says  that  Thomas  de  la 
Lynd,  a  gentleman  of  fair  estate,  killed  the  white 
hart  which  Henry  by  express  will  had  reserved 
for  his  own  chase,  and  that  in  consequence  the 
county — as  accessory  for  not  opposing  him — was 
mulched  for  ever  in  a  fine  called  "  White-hart 
Silver."  "  Myself,"  continues  Fuller  sorrowfully, 
"  hath  paid  a  share  for  the  sauce  who  never 
tasted  the  meat."  Loudon  also  informs  us  that 
the  vale  contained  LoseVs  Wood,  in  which  stood  the 
Raven's  Oak  mentioned  by  White  in  his  Natural 
History  of  Selborne. 

The  Vale  of  Blackmore  stretches  westward 
from  the  Melburys  north  of  Cattistock  (Melbury 
Bub,  Osmund  and  Sampford)  to  Melbury  Abbas 
south  of  Shaftesbury. 

Down  beyond  Pulham,  seven  miles  south- 
west of  Sturminster  Newton,  on  a  flat  and  dismal 
road,  stands  at  the  King's  Stag  Bridge  across 
the  River  Lidden  an  inn  called  "  King's  Stag," 
with  a  signboard  representing  a  stag  with  a 


56  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

ring    round    its   neck,    and    the   following   lines 
below : — 

"  When  Julius  Caesar  reigned  here, 
I  was  then  but  a  little  deer ; 
When  Julius  Caesar  reigned  king, 
Upon  my  neck  he  placed  this  ring, 
That  whoso  me  might  overtake 
Should  spare  my  life  for  Caesar's  sake." 

The  belief  in  the  longevity  of  the  stag  prevails 
in  most  countries.  Linnaeus  (Regnum  Animale) 
says  of  the  Cervus  Elaphus  :  "  ^Etas  Bovis  tan- 
turn  ;  fabula  est  longaevitatis  cervi." 

From  a  formula,  as  old  as  the  hills,  relating  to 
the  length  of  life  of  animals  and  trees  we  learn 
that— 

"  Three  old  dogs  make  one  horse ;  three  old 
horses  make  one  old  man  ;  three  old  men,  one  old 
red  deer ;  three  old  red  deer,  one  old  oak ;  three  old 
oaks,  one  brent-fir  [fir  or  pine  dug  out  of  bogs]." 

If  a  dog  be  supposed  to  be  old  at  eight  years, 
this  will  give  :  horse,  24  ;  man,  72  ;  deer,  216  ; 
oak,  648  ;  bog  fir,  or  brent  fir,  1944  years. 

The  proverbs  which  follow  are  not  folk-sayings, 
but  they  are  given  a  place  here  as  being  quaint 
and  curious,  and  not  devoid  of  a  certain  interest, 
as  they  were  collected  by  the  author  while  tramp- 
ing in  the  Vale  of  Blackmore  during  the  summer 
of  1921  :— 


THE  VALE  OF  BLACKMOOR        57 

"  When  the  gorse  is  out  of  blossom,  kissing 
is  out  of  fashion  "  (i.e.  kissing  is  never  out  of 
fashion). 

"  Trouble  ran  off  him  like  water  off  a  duck's 
back." 

"  If  you  sing  before  breakfast,  you'll  cry  before 
night." 

"  Turn  your  money  when  you  hear  the  cuckoo, 
and  you'll  have  money  in  your  purse  till  the 
cuckoo  comes  again." 

"Plenty  of  lady-birds,  plenty  of  hops."  (The 
toccinella  feeds  upon  the  aphis  that  proves  so 
destructive  to  the  hop-plant.) 

**  March,  search  ;  April,  try  ; 

May  will  prove  if  you  live  or  die." 
"  When  your  salt  is  damp,  you  will  soon  have 
rain." 

"  It  will  be  a  wet  month  when  there  are  two 
full  moons  in  it." 

Certainly  the  maidens  of  Blackmore  have  a 
benediction  upon  them,  granted  them  for  their 
homeliness  and  kindness.  Their  eyes  are  quiet 
and  yet  fearless,  and  all  the  maids  have  something 
wifely  about  them.  William  Barnes,  the  poet 
of  the  Dorset  valley,  praising  the  Blackmoor 
maidens,  says  : 

"  Why,  if  a  man  would  wive 
An'  thrive  'ithout  a  dow'r, 
Then  let  en  look  en  out  a  wife 
In  Blackmore  by  the  Stour." 


58  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

William  Barnes  was  not  a  wild  wooer,  and  he 
found  joy  and  adventure  in  a  smile  and  a  blush 
from  a  Blackmore  milkmaid  after  having  carried 
her  pail,  and  he  was  satisfied  to  know  that  she 
would  have  bowed  when  she  took  it  back  had  it 
not  been  too  heavy.  Perhaps — O  dizzy  fancy  ! 
— sweet  Nan  of  the  Vale  would  not  have  refused 
a  little  kiss  !  At  all  events  Barnes  knew  woman- 
hood in  its  perfection  when  he  met  with  it— the 
maid  who  was  "  good  and  true  and  fair  "  was  his 
preference. 


CHAPTER  IV 

BLANDFORD  TO   DORCHESTER 

If  we  return,  will  England  be 

Just  England  still  to  you  and  me  ? 

The  place  where  we  must  earn  our  bread  ? — 

We  who  have  walked  among  the  dead, 

And  watched  the  smile  of  agony, 

And  seen  the  price  of  Liberty, 

Which  we  have  taken  carelessly 

From  other  hands.     Nay,  we  shall  dread, 

If  we  return, 

Dread  lest  we  hold  blood-guiltily 
The  thing  that  men  have  died  to  free. 
Oh,  English  fields  shall  blossom  red 
In  all  the  blood  that  has  been  shed, 
By  men  whose  guardians  are  we, 

If  we  return. 

F.  W.  HARVEY. 

BLANDFORD,  or,  to  give  the  town  its  full 
title,  Blandford  Forum,  gets  its  name  from 
the  ancient  ford  of  the  Stour,  on  a  bend  of 
which  river  it  is  pleasingly  placed  in  the  midst 
of  a  bountiful  district.  It  is  called  "  Shottsford 
Forum  "  in  Hardy's  Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd, 
and  in  The  Woodlanders  we  are  told  that  "  Shotts- 
ford is  Shottsford  still :  you  can't  victual  your 
carcass  there  unless  you've  got  money,  and  you 
can't  buy  a  cup  of  genuine  there  whether  or  no." 
The  long  chief  street  of  the  town  has  a  bright, 
modern  aspect,  due  to  the  great  fire  of  1731  which 

59 


60  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

destroyed  all  but  forty  houses  in  the  place.  There 
is  nothing  to  detain  the  pilgrim  here,  but  it 
makes  a  good  centre  for  any  who  are  exploring 
the  country  around  it. 

Five  miles  of  rather  hilly  road  brings  us  to 
Winterborne  Whitchurch,  which  has  a  very  in- 
teresting church  containing  a  curious  old  font  dated 
1450  and  a  fine  old  pulpit  removed  from  Milton. 
The  grandfather  of  John  and  Charles  Wesley  was 
vicar  here  from  1658  to  1662.  Of  the  poet  George 
Turberville,  born  here  about  1530,  very  little  is 
known.  He  was  one  of  the  "  wild  "  Turbervilles, 
and  one  would  like  to  learn  more  about  him. 
Anyway,  here  is  a  specimen  of  his  verse : 

"  Death  is  not  so  much  to  be  feared  as  Daylie 

Diseases  are. 
What  ?     1st  not  follie  to  dread  and  stand  of  Death 

in  feare 
That  mother  is  of  quiet  rest,  and  grief  away  does 

weare  ? 
Was  never  none  that  twist  have  felt  of  cruel  Death 

the  Knife ; 
But  other  griefes  and  pining  paines  doe  linger  on 

thro  life, 
And  oftentimes  one  selfsame  corse  with  furious 

fits  molest 
When  Death  by  one  dispatch  of  life  doth  bring 

the  soul  to  rest." 

When  we  arrive  at  Milborne  St  Andrews  we 
are  within  eight  miles  of  Dorchester.  The  Manor 


BLANDFORD  TO  DORCHESTER        61 

House,  up  a  by-road  and  past  the  church  of  St 
Andrew,  is  the  original  of  "  Welland  House  "  in 
Hardy's  Two  on  a  Tower.  This  was  once  the 
residence  of  the  Mansell-Pleydell  family,  but 
since  1758  it  has  been  used  as  a  farm-house.  The 
village  was  formerly  an  important  posting-place 
between  Blandford  and  Dorchester,  and  we  are 
reminded  of  the  coaching  days  by  the  effigy  of  a 
white  hart  on  the  cornice  of  the  post  office,  in  time 
past  a  busy  inn. 

Puddletown  is  our  next  halt  on  the  road.  It  is 
a  considerable  village  whose  church  has  a  chapel 
full  of  ancient  monuments  to  the  Martins  of 
Athelhampton.  Canon  Carter  held  the  living 
here  in  1838,  and  when  he  first  arrived  the  news 
that  he  neither  shot,  hunted  nor  fished  disturbed 
the  rustic  flock,  and  they  openly  expressed  their 
contempt  for  him.  Then  he  replaced  the  village 
church  band  with  a  harmonium,  and  the  story 
gained  so  much  bulk  and  robustity  in  travelling, 
as  such  stories  do  in  the  country,  that  I  have  no 
doubt  he  seemed  a  sort  of  devastating  monster. 

After  this  he  did  a  most  appalling  thing  :  he 
tampered  with  a  very  ancient  rectorial  gift  of  a 
mince-pie,  a  loaf  of  bread  and  a  quart  of  old  ale  to 
every  individual  in  the  parish,  not  even  excluding 
the  babies  in  arms,  and  ventured  to  assert  that 
the  funds  would  be  better  employed  in  forming  a 


62  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

clothing  club  for  the  poor.  Carter  was  a  very 
worthy  man,  but  somehow  I  cannot  forgive  him 
for  this.  He  should  have  placed  himself  a  little 
nearer  to  the  full  current  of  natural  things.  In 
the  essence  the  ancient  gift  was  "  clothing  " — 
solid  and  straightforward.  It  was  surely  in  this 
spirit  that  Bishop  John  Still  penned  his  famous 
drinking  song  : 

"  No  frost  nor  snow,  no  wind,  I  trow, 

Can  hurt  me  if  I  would, 
I  am  so  wrapt  and  throughly  lapt 
Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old." 

So  at  the  next  tithe-day  supper  at  the  Rectory 
a  farmer  who  had  in  him  the  Dorset  heart  and 
blood,  a  very  demi-god  amongst  the  poor  of 
Puddletown,  arose  in  his  place  and  asked  the 
good  Canon  Carter  if  he  still  held  to  his  purpose 
of  converting  the  Christmas  ale  into  nether  gar- 
ments for  little  boys,  and  the  Canon  replied  to  the 
effect  that  it  was  his  intention  to  carry  out  that 
reform. 

Then  the  farmer,  full  of  the  West,  who  had  not 
come  to  talk  balderdash,  shouted :  "  I  ban't 
agwaine  tu  see  the  poor  folk  put  upon.  I'll  be 
blamed  ef  I  du."  His  voice  was  very  strong  and 
echoed  in  the  rafters  in  an  alarming  way,  for  he 
was  of  the  breed  that  said  "  good-morning  "  to  a 
friend  three  fields  away  without  much  effort.  At 


BLANDFORD  TO  DORCHESTER       63 

this  point  certain  stuffy  people  folded  their  hands, 
and  called  out  "  Fie !  "  and  "  Shame  I  "  for  it  was 
their  purpose  to  curry  favour  with  the  vicar,  they 
having  many  small  children  in  need  of  nether 
garments. 

But  the  farmer  cried  out  over  them  all  (and  all 
the  other  farmers  cheered  him  on) :  "  I  tellee  what 
tez.  I  don't  care  a  brass  button  for  you,  with  all 
your  penny-loaf  ways.  That  to  ye  all !  "  And 
with  that  he  snapped  his  fingers  in  the  face  of  all 
the  company,  walked  out,  mounted  his  powerful 
horse  and  turned  back  to  his  great,  spacious 
farm-house.  Here  he  counted  out  a  great  bundle 
of  Stuckey's  Bank  notes,  and  calling  his  bailiff 
sent  them  post-haste  to  the  landlord  of  the  King's 
Arms  with  word  to  the  effect  that  they  were 
lodged  against  a  quart  of  Christmas  ale  for  every 
soul  who  should  care  to  claim  it  on  Christmas  Eve. 
That  is  the  story  of  Farmer  Dribblecombe,  and  may 
we  all  come  out  of  a  trying  position  as  well  as  he. 

But  to  return  to  the  church.  There  are  the 
old  oak  pews  of  bygone  days,  a  choir  gallery  with 
the  date  1635,  an  ancient  pulpit  and  a  curious 
Norman  font  shaped  like  a  drinking-bowl.  The 
most  interesting  corner  of  the  church  is  the 
Athelhampton  aisle,  which  is  entered  through  a 
quaint  archway  guarded  by  a  tomb  on  which  lies 
an  armed  knight  carved  in  alabaster.  Buried 


64  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

here  are  the  Martins  of  many  generations.  They 
once  owned  the  old  manor-house,  with  the  great 
barns  behind  it  and  the  fertile  acres  spreading  far 
on  every  hand.  They  once  went  forth  swiftly 
and  strongly,  on  hefty  and  determined  horses, 
and  worked  hotly,  and  came  in  wearied  with  long 
rides  and  adventures.  Now  they  rest  together, 
"  mediaevally  recumbent,"  and  when  their  ghosts 
walk  they  do  not  inquire  who  owns  the  land  where 
they  tread.  They  let  the  hot  world  go  by,  and 
wait  with  patience  the  day  when  all  the  old 
squires  of  Athelhampton  shall  be  mustered  once 
again.  A  great  company  indeed  !  The  offspring 
of  one  noble  family,  who,  following  each  other  for 
nearly  four  hundred  years,  ruled  as  lords  of  their 
little  holding  in  Dorset.  The  first  of  the  family 
came  to  Athelhampton  in  1250,  and  the  last  in 
1595.  Everywhere  is  to  be  found  carved  on  their 
tombs  the  dark  and  menacing  motto,  beneath 
their  monkey  crest,  "He  who  looks  at  Martins' 
Ape,  Martins'  Ape  shall  look  at  him  !  "  The  crest 
is,  of  course,  a  play  on  the  word  Martin,  which  is 
an  obsolete  word  for  ape.  But  the  menace  of 
the  motto  has  lost  its  power  these  three  hundred 
years,  and  nothing  of  the  might  and  affluence  of 
the  Martins  remains  but  their  mutilated  effigies. 
I  have  been  wondering  to-day  how  they  must 
look  out  upon  us  all  with  our  cinematographs, 


BLANDFORD  TO  DORCHESTER      65 

jazzy-dances,  lip-sticks,  backless  gowns,  cigarettes, 
whisky  and  pick-me-ups,  and  our  immense  concern 
over  the  immeasurably  trivial.  I  don't  know 
that  I  said  it  aloud — such  things  need  not  be  said 
aloud — but  as  I  read  a  touching  epitaph  which 
urged  a  little  prayer  for  two  of  the  family,  I 
turned  almost  numbly  away,  while  my  whole 
being  seemed  to  cry  out :  "  God  rest  your  souls, 
God  rest  your  souls." 

Here,  since  we  are  on  the  subject,  is  the  touching 
prayer  from  the  lips  of  one  of  the  ancient  house  of 
the  Martins  : 

"  Here  lyeth  the  body  of  Xpofer  Martyn  Esquyer, 
Sone  and  heyre  unto  Syr  Wm:  Martyn,  knight, 
Pray  for  their  souls  with  harty  desyre 
That  both  may  be  sure  of  Eternall  Lyght ; 
Calling  to  Remembrance  that  evoy  wyhgt 
Most  nedys  dye,  and  therefore  lett  us  pray 
As  others  for  us  may  do  Another  day." 

The  last  of  the  Martins  was  the  Knight  Nicholas 
who  was  buried  here  in  1595,  and  the  last  pass- 
age of  his  epitaph  are  the  words,  "  Good-night, 
Nicholas  !  "  With  these  appropriate  words  they 
put  Nicholas  to  rest,  like  a  child  who  had  grown 
sleepy  before  it  was  dark.  After  all,  we  are  all 
children,  and  when  the  shadows  lengthen  and  the 
birds  get  back  to  the  protecting  eaves,  we  too 
grow  tired— tired  of  playing  with  things  much 
too  large  for  us —much  too  full  of  meaning. 


66  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

The  church  of  Puddletown,  or  "  Weatherbury," 
brings  us  to  the  crowning  catastrophe  of  the  sad 
love  tale  of  Francis  Troy  and  Fanny  Robin,  for  it 
is  the  scene  of  the  sergeant's  agony  of  remorse. 
Having  set  up  a  tombstone  over  the  poor  girl's 
grave,  Troy  proceeds  to  plant  the  mound  beneath 
with  flowers.  "  There  were  bundles  of  snowdrops, 
hyacinth  and  crocus  bulbs,  violets  and  double 
daisies,  which  were  to  bloom  in  early  spring,  and 
of  carnations,  pinks,  picotees,  lilies  of  the  valley, 
forget-me-not,  summer's  farewell,  meadow  saffron, 
and  others,  for  the  later  seasons  of  the  year." 
The  author  minutely  describes  the  planting  of 
these  by  Troy,  with  his  "  impassive  face,"  on 
that  dark  night  when  the  rays  from  his  lantern 
spread  into  the  old  yews  "  with  a  strange,  illum- 
inating power,  flickering,  as  it  seemed,  up  to  the 
black  ceiling  of  cloud  above."  He  works  till 
midnight  and  sleeps  in  the  church  porch  ;  and 
then  comes  the  storm  and  the  doings  of  the  gar- 
goyle. The  stream  of  water  from  the  church  roof 
spouting  through  the  mouth  of  this  "  horrible 
stone  entity  "  rushes  savagely  into  the  new-made 
grave,  turning  the  mould  into  a  welter  of  mud 
and  washing  away  all  the  flowers  so  carefully 
planted  by  Fanny's  repentant  lover.  At  the 
sight  of  the  havoc,  we  are  told,  Troy  "  hated 
himself."  He  stood  and  meditated,  a  miserable 


BLANDFORD  TO  DORCHESTER       67 

human  derelict.  Where  should  he  turn  for 
sanctuary  ?  But  the  words  that  burnt  and 
withered  his  soul  could  not  be  banished  :  "  He 
that  is  accursed,  let  him  be  accursed  still." 

The  ill-named  River  Piddle — a  rippling,  tor- 
toiseshell-coloured  stream  at  times  —runs  through 
the  streets.  An  old  thatched  house  is  peculiar 
by  reason  of  the  fact  that  it  has  broken  out  into 
a  spacious  Georgian  bow  window — a  "  window 
worthy  of  a  town  hall,"  as  Sir  Frederick  Treves 
has  remarked.  It  is  supported  by  pillars,  and 
has  a  porch-like  space  beneath  devoted  to  a 
flower-bed. 

"  Weatherbury  Upper  Farm,"  the  home  of 
Bathsheba,  which  she  inherited  from  her  uncle, 
is  not  to  be  found  in  Puddletown,  but  if  the 
pilgrim  desires  to  find  it  he  must  proceed  up  the 
valley  of  the  Puddle,  in  the  direction  of  Piddle- 
hinton.  Before  reaching  the  village  he  will  come 
to  Lower  Walterstone,  where  a  fine  Jacobean 
manor-house,  bearing  the  date  1586,  will  be 
easily  recognised  as  the  original  which  Thomas 
Hardy  made  to  serve  as  the  "  Upper  Farm  "  in 
Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd. 

In  the  story  the  author  has  placed  the  farm  a 
mile  or  more  from  its  actual  position,  and  it  is 
vividly  portrayed  : 

"  A  hoary  building,  of  the  Jacobean  stage  of 


68  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

Classic  Renaissance  as  regards  its  architecture, 
and  of  a  proportion  which  told  at  a  glance  that, 
as  is  so  frequently  the  case,  it  had  once  been 
the  manorial  hall  upon  a  small  estate  around  it, 
now  altogether  effaced  as  a  distinct  property, 
and  merged  in  the  vast  tract  of  a  non-resident 
landlord,  which  comprised  several  such  modest 
demesnes.  Fluted  pilasters,  worked  from  the 
solid  stone,  decorated  its  front,  and  above  the  roof 
pairs  of  chimneys  were  here  and  there  linked  by 
an  arch,  some  gables  and  other  unmanageable 
features  still  retaining  traces  of  their  Gothic 
extraction.  Soft  brown  mosses,  like  faded 
velveteen,  formed  cushions  upon  the  stone  tiling, 
and  tufts  of  the  house-leek  or  sengreen  sprouted 
from  the  eaves  of  the  low  surrounding  buildings. 
A  gravel  walk  leading  from  the  door  to  the  road 
in  front  was  encrusted  at  the  sides  with  more 
moss— here  it  was  a  silver-green  variety,  the  nut- 
brown  of  the  gravel  being  visible  to  the  width  of 
only  a  foot  or  two  in  the  centre.  This  circum- 
stance, and  the  generally  sleepy  air  of  the  whole 
prospect  here,  together  with  the  animated  and 
contrasting  state  of  the  reverse  facade,  suggested 
to  the  imagination  that  on  the  adaptation  of  the 
building  for  farming  purposes  the  vital  principle 
of  the  house  had  turned  round  inside  its  body  to 
face  the  other  way." 


CHAPTER  V 

DORCHESTER 

When  I  am  dead,  my  body  shall  go  back 
To  the  hills  between  the  Ridgeway  and  the  Sea—- 
To the  Earthworks  and  terracing  and  ancient  bridle-track 
To  the  Dorset  hills  my  heart  has  held  in  fee  ; 
My  limbs  that  thrived  on  them  shall  be  their  very  own, 
I  shall  live  again  in  little  wayside  flowers  ; 
My  flesh  and  bones  and  sinew  shall  give  life  to  mighty  trees 
And  my  spirit  shall  abide  in  ancient  towers. 

When  I  am  dead,  my  dust  shall  mix  with  clay, 
And  "puddle  "  some  lone  dew-pond  on  the  hill, 
So  every  Dorset  lad  who  drinks  upon  his  way 
Will  somehow  lead  me  back  to  Dorset  still. 

ANONYMOUS. 

DORCHESTER  deserves  to  be  chosen  as 
the  headquarters  of  the  earliest  of  a  series 
of  excursions  in  Dorset,  not  only  by  reason  of  the 
premier  position  which  it  holds  in  the  country, 
but  also  on  account  of  the  multitude  of  interesting 
surroundings  which  claim  the  attention  of  the 
literary  pilgrim,  the  antiquary  and  the  archaeol- 
ogist. The  town  is  situated  on  a  hill  which  slopes 
on  the  one  side  to  the  valley  of  the  Frome,  and 
extends  on  the  other  in  an  open  country,  across 
which  run  the  Roman  roads,  still  used  as  the 
highways.  The  principal  thoroughfares  divide 
Dorchester  pretty  equally,  the  High  Street 
69 


70  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

intersecting  it  from  east  to  west,  the  South  Street 
and  North  Market  in  the  opposite  direction.  On 
the  south-west  is  the  suburb  of  Fordington.  The 
principal  street — on  the  line  of  the  Via  Iceniana 
— ends  abruptly  at  the  fields,  and  on  the  south 
and  west  is  the  rampart,  planted  with  rows  of 
sycamore  and  chestnut  trees  as  a  walk. 

Daniel  Defoe,  in  his  whimsical  description  of 
his  pilgrimage  From  London  to  Land's  End,  pub- 
lished in  1724,  gives  an  entertaining  survey  of  the 
town  at  that  period.  He  says  :  "  Dorchester  is 
indeed  a  pleasant,  agreeable  town  to  live  in,  and 
where  I  thought  the  people  seemed  less  divided 
in  factions  and  parties  than  in  other  places  ;  for 
though  here  are  divisions,  and  the  people  are  not 
all  of  one  mind,  either  as  to  religion  or  politics, 
yet  they  did  not  seem  to  separate  with  so  much 
animosity  as  in  other  places.  Here  I  saw  the 
Church  of  England  clergyman  and  the  Dissenting 
minister  or  preacher  drinking  tea  together,  and 
conversing  with  civility  and  good  neighbourhood, 
like  Catholic  Christians  and  men  of  a  catholic 
and  extensive  charity.  The  town  is  populous, 
though  not  large ;  the  streets  broad ;  but  the  build- 
ings old  and  low.  However,  there  is  good  com- 
pany, and  a  good  deal  of  it ;  and  a  man  that  coveted 
a  retreat  in  this  world  might  as  agreeably  spend 
his  time,  and  as  well,  in  Dorchester  as  in  any  town 


DORCHESTER  71 

I  know  in  England.  .  .  .  There  are  abundance  of 
good  families  and  of  very  ancient  lines  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  this  town  of  Dorchester,  as  the 
Napiers,  the  Courtneys,  Strangeways,  Seymours, 
Banks,  Tregonwells,  Sydenhams,  and  many  others, 
some  of  which  have  very  great  estates  in  the 
county,  and  in  particular  Colonel  Strangeways 
(ancestor  of  the  present  Earl  of  Ilchester),  Napier 
(ancestor  of  the  present  Lord  Arlington)  and 
Courtney." 

As  to  the  healthiness  of  Dorchester,  the  editors 
of  Hutchins's  second  edition  wrote :  "  The 
pleasant  and  healthy  situation  of  this  town 
deserves  an  encomium.  The  famous  Doctor 
Arbuthnot,  coming  hither  in  his  early  days  with 
a  view  to  settle  in  it,  gave  as  a  reason  for  his 
departure  that  4  a  physician  could  neither  live 
nor  die  in  Dorchester.' ' 

St  Peter's  Church,  a  venerable  edifice,  occupies 
a  prominent  position  at  the  intersection  of  the 
four  streets  and  rises  in  its  tower  to  a  height  of 
ninety  feet.  It  is  a  well-proportioned  building, 
with  Norman  porch  and  some  monuments,  with 
effigies,  to  Lord  Holies  of  Ifield  and  to  two  un- 
known Crusaders,  in  coats  of  mail,  with  their 
legs  crossed. 

In  the  north  wall  of  the  chancel  is  placed  an 
altar- tomb,  which  is  supposed  to  be  that  of  the 


72  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

founder.  A  mural  tablet  on  the  south  wall 
commemorates  THOMAS  HARDY,  Esquire,  of 
Melcombe  Regis,  who  founded  and  endowed  the 
Free  Grammar  School. 

There  were  two  brasses,  now  lost,  one  on  the 
chancel  floor,  on  grey  stone,  over  the  effigy  of  a 
woman  kneeling,  reading: 

"  Miserere  mei  d's  s'dum  magnum  mi'am  tuam." 
The  other : 

"Hie  jacet  Johanna  de  Sto.  Omero,  relicta 
Rob'bi  More,  qui  obiit  in  vigilia  ste.  Trinitatis 
sc'do  Die  mensis  Anno  D'ni  MCCCCXXXVI. 
Cuj'.  a'ie  p'piciet'  D.  Amen." 

Tradition  says  that  the  church  was  erected  by 
"  Geoffrey  Van,  his  wife  Anne  and  his  maid  Nan." 
Two  of  the  six  bells  are  mediaeval.  Close  to  the 
south  porch  is  a  bronze  statue  of  William  Barnes. 
His  learning,  his  writings  and  poems  in  the  Dorset 
dialect,  his  kindliness  to  his  poor  and  his  parish 
made  him  universally  beloved.  The  pedestal 
bears  the  simple  inscription  :  "  William  Barnes. 
1801-1886,"  and  the  following  lines  from  his  poem, 
Culverdell  and  the  Squire  : 

"  Zoo  now  I  hope  his  kindly  feace 
Is  gone  to  vind  a  better  pleace, 
But  still  we'  vo'k  a-left  behind, 
He'll  always  be  a-kept  in  mind." 


DORCHESTER  73 

On  3rd  September  1685  Judge  Jeffreys  opened 
his  Bloody  Assize  at  Dorchester.  Lord  Macaulay 
says  :  "  By  order  of  the  Chief  Justice,  the  court 
was  hung  with  scarlet,  and  this  innovation 
seemed  to  the  multitude  to  indicate  a  bloody 
purpose.  More  than  300  prisoners  were  to  be 
tried.  The  work  seemed  heavy,  but  Jeffreys 
had  a  contrivance  for  making  it  light.  He  let  it 
be  understood  that  the  only  chance  of  obtaining 
pardon  or  respite  was  to  plead  guilty.  Twenty- 
nine  who  put  themselves  on  their  country,  and 
were  convicted,  were  ordered  to  be  tied  up  with- 
out delay.  The  remaining  prisoners  pleaded 
guilty  by  the  score.  Two  hundred  and  ninety- 
two  received  sentence  of  death."  Thirteen  were 
executed  here  on  7th  September.  The  formidable 
judge's  chair  is  preserved  in  the  Town  Hall,  and 
visitors  are  shown  the  picturesque  timber  house 
in  High  Street  West  at  which,  tradition  hath  it, 
this  brutal  judge  lodged. 

Dorchester  derives  its  name  from  the  ancient 
Roman  name  of  Durnovaria,  and  Thomas  Hardy 
has  transferred  part  of  this  Latinity  in  writing 
of  Fordington  as  "  Durnover "  in  his  novels. 
Close  to  the  London  and  South- Western  Railway 
station,  on  the  Weymouth  Road,  is  a  field,  now 
a  municipal  pleasure  ground,  containing  what  is 
called  Maumbury  Rings — a  large,  oval,  grassy 


74          THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

mound,  curved  like  a  horseshoe.  This  great 
earthen  ring,  which  it  is  estimated  would  hold 
10,000  spectators,  is  supposed  to  be  the  work  of 
prehistoric  man,  adapted  by  the  Romans  to  the 
purposes  of  an  amphitheatre.  Extensive  excava- 
tions were  carried  on  in  the  amphitheatre  by  the 
British  Archaeological  Association  and  the  Dorset 
Field  Club  during  five  summers  — 1908,  1909, 
1910,  1912  and  1913— and  among  many  interest- 
ing finds  by  the  archaeologists'  spade  must  be 
mentioned  the  oblong  cave  at  the  east  end,  prob- 
ably for  the  confinement  of  beasts,  prehistoric 
shafts  in  which  picks  of  red- deer  antlers,  worked 
flints,  etc.,  were  found,  sundry  human  skeletons 
interred,  and  a  well  of  the  Civil  War  period,  dur- 
ing which  the  symmetrical  terraces  were  appar- 
ently added  to  the  original  ancient  banks. 

A  crowd  of  10,000  people  is  said  to  have  been 
gathered  upon  it  at  the  execution  of  Mary  Chan- 
ning,  the  wife  of  a  grocer  at  Dorchester,  who  was 
strangled  and  burnt  in  the  arena  for  poisoning 
her  husband  in  1705. 

The  Via  Iceniana  or  Icknield  Street  came  out 
of  Wiltshire  by  Blandford  to  Dorchester  and 
strikes  on  towards  the  west  by  Eggerdun  Hill, 
about  ten  miles  from  the  town,  where  it  is  clearly 
marked. 

A    Roman    road    went    from    Dorchester    to 


DORCHESTER  75 

Ilchester,  by  Bradford  and  Stratton,  so  called  as 
the  Stret-tun,  the  village  on  the  Roman  stratum 
or  road. 

"It  is  impossible,"  writes  Mr  Hardy,  "  to  dig 
more  than  a  foot  or  two  deep  about  the  town, 
fields  and  gardens  without  coming  upon  some  tall 
soldier  or  other  of  the  Empire,  who  had  lain  there 
in  his  silent,  unobtrusive  rest  for  one  thousand 
five  hundred  years.  He  was  mostly  found  lying 
on  his  side,  in  an  oval  scoop  in  the  chalk,  like  a 
chicken  in  its  shell,  his  knees  drawn  up  to  his 
chest,  sometimes  with  the  remains  of  his  spear 
against  his  arm,  a  fibula  or  brooch  of  bronze  on 
his  breast  or  forehead,  an  urn  at  his  knees,  a  jar 
at  his  throat,  a  bottle  at  his  mouth,  and  mystified 
conjecture  poring  down  upon  him  from  the  eyes 
of  boys  and  men  who  had  turned  to  gaze  at  the 
familiar  spectacle  as  they  passed  on." 

In  the  excavations  made  when  Mr  Hardy's 
house  at  Max  Gate  was  commenced  graves  were 
discovered,  of  which  Mr  Hardy  wrote  :  "In  two 
of  them,  and  I  believe  in  a  third,  a  body  lay  on  its 
right  side,  the  knees  being  drawn  up  to  the  chest 
and  the  arm  extended  downwards,  so  that  the 
hand  rested  against  the  ankles.  Each  body  was 
fitted  with,  one  may  almost  say,  perfect  accuracy 
into  the  oval  hole,  the  crown  of  the  head  touching 
the  maiden  chalk  at  one  end  and  the  toes  at  the 


76  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

other,  the  tight-fitting  situation  being  strongly 
suggestive  of  the  chicken  in  the  egg-shell." 

Maiden  Castle,  the  Mai  Dun  or  "  Hill  of 
Strength,"  one  of  the  finest  old  camps  in  England, 
is  situated  most  conspicuously  to  the  right  of  a 
Roman  road  (now  the  Weymouth  highway).  It 
may  astonish  the  traveller  by  the  scale  of  its  three 
earthen  ramparts,  the  innermost  being  sixty 
feet  in  height  and  a  mile  or  more  in  circumfer- 
ence. It  is  about  two  and  a  quarter  miles  south- 
west from  the  centre  of  the  town,  and  may  be 
reached  by  continuing  on  through  Cornhill,  cross- 
ing the  bridge  over  the  Great  Western  Railway 
and  turning  to  the  right  just  beyond  it.  Here, 
where  the  road  reaches  the  open,  the  left-hand 
track  must  be  followed.  On  climbing  to  the 
camp  the  pilgrim  will  find  that  these  ramparts 
are  as  steep  as  they  are  lofty,  and  that  they  are 
pierced  by  intricate  entrances  formed  by  the 
overlapping  ends  of  the  valla  and  additionally 
strengthened  by  outworks.  The  view  is  com- 
manding, but  not  remarkable  for  beauty,  the 
principal  features  being  the  Roman  roads  diverg- 
ing from  Dorchester  and  the  innumerable  barrows 
which  dot  the  hills  near  the  sea.  Opinions  differ 
as  to  the  origin  of  this  remarkable  hill  fortress, 
but  the  weight  of  authority  is  in  favour  of  its 
construction  by  the  Britons  and  its  subsequent 


DORCHESTER  77 

occupation  as  a  summer  camp  by  the  Roman 
troops  stationed  at  Dorchester. 

The  visitor  will  be  interested  in  the  old  inns 
of  Dorchester.  In  High  Street  East  stands,  just 
as  described  in  The  Mayor  of  Casterbridge,  that 
fine  and  most  comfortable  of  country  hotels — the 
King's  Arms.  From  a  doorway  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  street  Susan  and  Elizabeth- Jane, 
amid  the  crowd,  witnessed  the  dinner  given  to 
the  mayor.  Through  the  archway  of  this  inn 
Boldwood  carried  Bathsheba,  fainting  at  the  news 
of  her  husband's  death.  From  the  diary  of  a 
landowner  of  the  neighbourhood  (Mr  Richards, 
of  Warmwell),  written  more  than  a  hundred  and 
fifty  years  ago,  we  find  that  the  King's  Arms  and 
Antelope  were  Dorchester  inns  in  his  days,  as  he 
writes  that  on  Saturday,  13th  October  1697,  he 
"agreed  wth  Captn  Sidenham,  at  the  Antelope 
in  Dorchestr,  for  100  great  bushells  of  his  choice 
oats,  at  6s.  8d.  pr  sack,"  and  at  other  times  dined 
and  transacted  other  business  there  ;  and  at  the 
King's  Arms  bought  "  choice  early  pease  for  seed 
at  3s.  6d.  per  bushell." 

At  the  Antelope  Hotel,  which  is  in  South  Street, 
Lucetta,  passing  through  the  town  on  her  way  to 
Budmouth  (Weymouth),  appoints  to  meet  Hen- 
chard,  but  is  not  on  the  coach  she  mentioned. 
The  White  Hart  Tavern  stands  at  the  east 


78  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

entrance  to  the  town,  close  to  the  bridge.  Here 
Troy  lay  in  hiding,  planning  his  surprise  return  to 
Bathsheba  ;  we  also  encounter  this  inn  again  in 
The  Withered  Arm.  Gertrude  Lodge  came  here 
on  her  fatal  visit  to  Casterbridge  gaol. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  road  to  the  King's 
Arms  the  pilgrim  may  still  take  his  ale  at  the 
Phoenix,  the  scene  of  Janny's  last  dance  in 
Wessex  Poems.  In  The  Mayor  of  Casterbridge 
Hardy  mentions  a  low  inn  in  Mixen  Lane  (Mill 
Lane,  Dorchester)  frequented  by  all  sorts  of 
bad  characters.  In  early  editions  it  is  called 
"St  Peter's  Finger,"  and  it  would  seem  that  the 
author  borrowed  this  curious  name  from  a  genuine 
inn  sign  at  Lychett  Minster.  The  real  inn  was 
called  the  King's  Head,  which  has  now  been 
pulled  down. 

The  Grammar  School  is  in  South  Street,  an 
Elizabethan  foundation,  built  in  1569,  endowed 
with  a  small  farm  at  Frome  Vauchurch,  and  some 
houses  in  the  town,  by  Thomas  Hardy,  Esq., 
of  Melcombe  Regis.  Additions  were  made  to 
it  in  1618,  on  ground  given  by  Sir  Robert 
Napper. 

Close  to  the  school  are  Napier's  Almshouses, 
called  Napper 's  Mite,  founded  in  1616  by  Sir 
Robert  Napier  for  ten  poor  men,  who  have  a 
weekly  dole  and  a  small  section  of  garden  ground. 


DORCHESTER  7» 

The  front,  which  opens  into  a  small  cloister,  bears 
a  clock,  on  a  large  stone  ogee-corbelled  bracket, 
a  model  of  one  that  bears  the  sign  of  the  old 
George,  or  Pilgrim's,  Inn  at  Glastonbury. 

The  Hangman's  Cottage,  mentioned  in  the 
story  of  The  Withered  Arm,  is  still  extant.  It  is 
a  small  grey  cottage  in  the  meadows  by  the 
Frome,  opposite  the  gaol.  It  is  one  of  a  cluster 
of  cottages  built  of  flint  and  chalk,  faced  with 
red  brick  and  strengthened  with  iron  ties. 

The  Bull  Stake  and  the  gaol,  both  of  which 
figure  in  the  novels,  are  in  North  Square,  near 
St  Peter's  and  the  Corn  Exchange.  Approach- 
ing the  Frome,  we  pass  close  to  the  Friary 
Mill  (the  old  mill  of  the  suppressed  Franciscan 
Priory),  near  which  was  Jopp's  cottage,  to  which 
Henchard  retired  after  his  bankruptcy.  "  Trees, 
which  seemed  old  enough  to  have  been  planted 
by  the  friars,  still  stood  around,  and  the  back  hatch 
of  the  original  mill  yet  formed  a  cascade  which  had 
raised  its  terrific  roar  for  centuries.  The  cottage 
itself  was  built  of  old  stones  from  the  long 
dismantled  Priory,  scraps  of  tracery,  moulded 
window-jambs  and  arch-labels  being  mixed  in 
with  the  rubble  of  the  walls."  The  remains  of 
the  Priory  ruins  were  used  up  as  building  material 
and  no  trace  is  left.  The  prison  was  largely  built 
from  its  remains,  while  in  its  turn  it  is  said  to  have 


80  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

been  erected  from  the  ruins  of  a  castle  built  by 
the  Chidiocks. 

In  South  Street  we  shall  find  the  High  Place 
Hall,  which  was  Lucetta's  house.  It  stands  at 
the  corner  of  Durngate  Street,  but  the  fayade  has 
been  modernised  and  the  lower  portion  has  been 
converted  into  business  premises.  The  depress- 
ing mask  which  formed  the  Keystone  of  the  back 
door  was  taken  from  Colyton  House,  in  another 
part  of  the  town.  If  we  go  to  the  bottom  of 
South  Street  and  take  the  turning  to  the  left  we 
quickly  come  to  a  quiet  byway  on  the  right  near 
the  shire  hall,  called  Glydepath  Road.  On  the 
left  of  this  narrow  thoroughfare  is  the  early 
eighteenth-century  mansion  called  Colyton  House. 
Here  will  be  found  the  long  filled-in  archway, 
with  the  mask  as  its  keystone  :  "  Originally  the 
mask  had  exhibited  a  comic  leer,  as  could  still  be 
discerned;  but  generations  of  Casterbridge  boys 
had  thrown  stones  at  the  mask,  aiming  at  its 
open  mouth,  and  the  blows  thereat  had  chipped 
off  the  lips  and  jaw  as  if  they  had  been  eaten 
away  by  disease."  The  building  to  which  the 
archway  belongs  was  formerly  the  county  town 
residence  of  the  Churchills.  This  is  Lucetta's 
house  as  to  character,  though  not  as  to  situation. 

Just  beyond  the  White  Hart  we  come  to  the 
first  of  the  two  bridges  (the  second,  Grey's  Bridge, 


DORCHESTER  81 

being  only  a  few  hundred  yards  farther  along) 
which  have  their  parts  in  The  Mayor  of  Caster- 
bridge.  Thomas  Hardy  has  quaintly  described 
these  bridges  and  has  discoursed  upon  the  habits 
of  their  frequenters  : 

"  Two  bridges  stood  near  the  lower  part  of 
Casterbridge  (Dorchester)  town.  The  first,  of 
weather-stained  brick,  was  immediately  at  the 
end  of  High  Street,  where  a  diverging  branch 
from  that  thoroughfare  ran  round  to  the  low- 
lying  Durnover  lanes,  so  that  the  precincts  of  the 
bridge  formed  the  merging-point  of  respectability 
and  indigence.  The  second  bridge,  of  stone,  was 
farther  out  on  the  highway— in  fact,  fairly  in  the 
meadows,  though  still  within  the  town  boundary. 
.  .  .  Every  projection  in  each  was  worn  down  to 
obtuseness,  partly  by  weather,  more  by  friction 
from  generations  of  loungers,  whose  toes  and  heels 
had  from  year  to  year  made  restless  movements 
against  these  parapets,  as  they  had  stood  there 
meditating  on  the  aspect  of  affairs. 

"To  this  pair  of  bridges  gravitated  all  the 
failures  of  the  town.  .  .  .  There  was  a  marked 
difference  of  quality  between  the  personages  who 
haunted  the  near  bridge  of  brick  and  the  person- 
ages who  haunted  the  far  one  of  stone.  Those  of 
lowest  character  preferred  the  former,  adjoining 
the  town ;  they  did  not  mind  the  glare  of  the 


82  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

public  eye.  .  .  .  The  miserables  who  would 
pause  on  the  remoter  bridge  were  of  a  politer 
stamp." 

Dorchester  has  now  lost  its  fame  for  brewing 
beer.  But  about  1725  the  ale  of  this  town 
acquired  a  very  great  name.  In  Byron's  manu- 
script journal  (since  printed  by  the  Chetham 
Society)  the  following  entry  appears : — 

"May  18,  1725.  I  found  the  effect  of  last 
night  drinking  that  foolish  Dorset,  which  was 
pleasant  enough,  but  did  not  at  all  agree  with  me, 
for  it  made  me  stupid  all  day." 

A  mighty  local  reputation  had  "  Dorchester 
Ale,"  and  it  still  commands  a  local  influence,  for 
this  summer  I  was  advised  by  the  waiter  of 
the  Phoenix  Hotel  to  try  a  bottle  of  "  Grove's 
Stingo "  made  in  the  town.  It  is  a  potent 
beverage— and  needs  to  be  treated  with  respect, 
to  be  drunk  slowly  and  in  judicious  moderation. 
Thomas  Hardy  thus  describes  this  wonderful 
stuff,  the  "  pale-hued  Dorchester  "  in  his  novel, 
The  Trumpet  Major : 

"  In  the  liquor  line  Loveday  laid  in  an  ample 
barrel  of  Dorchester  strong  beer.  ...  It  was  of 
the  most  beautiful  colour  that  the  eye  of  an 
artist  in  beer  could  desire ;  full  in  body,  yet 
brisk  as  a  volcano;  piquant,  yet  without  a 
twang ;  luminous  as  an  autumn  sunset ;  free 


DORCHESTER  83 

from  streakiness  of  taste ;    but,  finally,  rather 
heady." 

Francis  Fawkes,  in  his  song  of  the  Brown  Jug 
(1720-1777),  mentions  the  "Dorchester  Butt," 
and  perhaps  the  Dorset  reader,  with,  it  may  be, 
some  tender  memories  of  his  own,  will  fancifully 
identify  "  sweet  Nan  of  the  Vale  "  with  another 
maid  down  Blackmore  Vale  way. 

"  Dear  Tom,  this  brown  jug  that  now  foams  with 

mild  ale 

(In  which  I  will  drink  to  sweet  Nan  of  the  Vale), 
Was  once  Toby  Fillpot,  a  thirsty  old  soul 
As  e'er  drank  a  bottle  or  fathom'd  a  bowl ; 
In  boosing  about  'twas  his  praise  to  excel, 
And  among  jolly  topers  he  bore  off  the  bell. 

It  chanced  as  in  dog-days  he  sat  at  his  ease 
In  his  flow'r- woven  arbour  as  gay  as  you  please, 
With  a  friend  and  a  pipe  puffing  sorrows  away, 
And  with  honest  old  stingo  was  soaking  his  clay, 
His  breath-doors  of  life  on  a  sudden  were  shut, 
And  he  died  full  as  big  as  a  Dorchester  butt. 

His  body,  when  long  in  the  ground  it  had  lain, 

And  time  into  clay  had  resolved  it  again, 

A  potter  found  out  in  its  covert  so  snug, 

And  with  part  of  fat  Toby  he  form'd  this  brown 

jug  : 

Now  sacred  to  friendship  and  mirth  and  mild  ale,  — 
So  here's  to  my  lovely  sweet  Nan  of  the  Vale  !  " 

Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd  is  a  novel 
concerned  with  Dorchester  and  the  immediate 


84  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

neighbourhood,  most  of  the  incidents  happening 
in  "  Weatherbury  "  (Puddletown)  and  "Caster- 
bridge  "  (Dorchester).  On  market  day  at  Dor- 
chester one  still  meets  prosperous  farmers,  stiffly 
dressed  children,  lean,  tanned,  rough  -  necked 
labourers  caged  in  their  Sunday  clothes  and  stout 
horse-dealers  in  grey  gaiters  and  black  hats,  and 
it  is  not  difficult  to  conjure  up  a  picture  of  the 
hiring  fair  mentioned  by  Hardy,  where  Gabriel 
Oak  appeared  in  search  of  a  situation  as  bailiff. 
It  will  be  recalled  that  Bathsheba  was  in  the 
habit  of  attending  the  Casterbridge  market  to  sell 
her  corn,  and  here  she  met  William  Boldwood, 
who  attracted  her  attention  on  account  of  his 
indifference  to  her.  Bathsheba  comes  vividly 
before  us  with  her  "  debut  in  the  Forum  "  in  the 
place  of  her  uncle.  We  can  picture  her  with  her 
beautiful  black  hair  and  soft,  misty  eyes  attract- 
ing considerable  attention  as  she  displayed  her 
sample  bags,  "  adopting  the  professional  pour  into 
the  hand,  holding  up  the  grains  in  her  narrow  palm 
for  inspection  in  perfect  Casterbridge  manner." 
There  was  "an  elasticity  in  her  firmness  that 
removed  it  from  obstinacy,"  and  "a  naivete  in 
her  cheapening  which  saved  it  from  meanness." 
In  a  "  Casterbridge  shop  Bathsheba  bought  the 
valentine  which  she  sent  anonymously  to  Bold- 
wood  to  tease  him.  It  was  this  fatal  valentine 


DORCHESTER  85 

that  drew  his  attention  to  Bathsheba,  and  caused 
him  to  fall  strongly  in  love  with  her,  and  in  the 
end  to  shoot  Sergeant  Troy  dead.  After  this 
deed  Boldwood  travelled  over  Mellstock  Hill  and 
Durnover  Moor  (Fordington  Moor)  into  Caster- 
bridge,  and  turning  into  "  Bull-Stake  Square," 
halted  before  an  archway  of  heavy  stonework 
which  was  closed  by  an  iron- studded  pair  of 
doors,"  and  gave  himself  up  for  murder. 

The  White  Hart  Tavern  at  "  Casterbridge " 
serves  to  call  to  the  reader's  mind  the  reappearance 
of  Sergeant  Troy,  in  propria  persona,  after  playing 
the  part  of  Turpin  in  a  circus  at  Greenhill  Fair. 

Yellowham  Wood,  "  Yallam  "  Wood  locally, 
and  the  "  Yalbury  Wood"  of  Far  from  the 
Madding  Crowd,  is  about  three  miles  from  Dor- 
chester on  the  road  to  Puddletown.  In  a  keeper's 
cottage  here  dwelt  sweet  Fancy  Day,  and  here  it 
was,  as  told  in  another  novel,  that  Joseph  Poor- 
grass  had  the  experience  the  recounting  of  which 
used  to  put  that  most  bashful  of  men  to  the  blush. 
"  Once  he  had  been  working  late  at  Yalbury 
Bottom,  and  had  had  a  drop  of  drink,  and  lost 
his  way  as  he  was  coming  home  along  through 
Yalbury  Wood.  .  .  .  And  as  he  was  coming  along 
in  the  middle  of  the  night,  much  afeared,  and  not 
able  to  find  his  way  out  of  the  trees  nohow,  a' 
cried  out,  '  Man-a-lost !  Man-a-lost !  '  An  owl 


86  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

in  a  tree  happened  to  be  crying  c  Whoo-whoo 
whoo !  '  as  owls  do,  you  know,  Shepherd,  and 
Joseph,  all  in  a  tremble,  said,  '  Joseph  Poorgrass, 
of  Weatherbury,  sir  !  '  '  No,  no,  now,  that's  too 
much,'  said  the  timid  man.  .  .  .  '  I  didn't  say  sir. 
...  I  never  said  sir  to  the  bird,  knowing  very 
well  that  no  man  of  a  gentleman's  rank  would  be 
hollerin'  there  at  that  time  o'  night.  "  Joseph 
Poorgrass,  of  Weatherbury,"  that's  every  word 
I  said,  and  I  shouldn't  ha'  said  that  if't  hadn't 
been  for  keeper  Day's  metheglin.' ' 

Here,  as  in  many  other  passages,  Hardy  shows 
his  minute  knowledge  of  nature.  He  appears  to 
know  every  sight  and  sound  of  animal  and  bird 
life,  at  all  seasons  of  the  year.  Some  readers  have 
perhaps,  as  they  walked  in  the  woods  just  before 
the  thrushes  and  blackbirds  have  finished  their 
evensong,  heard  the  note  of  the  brown  owl  —a  long 
and  somewhat  tremulous  "  Whoo-oo."  It  is  a 
very  musical  note,  and  it  does  not  at  all  resemble 
Shakespeare's  "  To- whit,  tu-whoo,"  which  so 
many  other  writers  have  copied.  Long  may  the 
brown  owl  live  to  chant  his  dim  song  in  "  Yallam  " 
Wood— and  long  may  he  escape  the  gun  and  trap 
of  the  gamekeeper  !  For,  of  all  the  cursed  and 
vile  things  in  this  world,  there  is  nothing  that  is 
worse  than  the  trap  that  snares  some  beautiful 
wild  thing  and  keeps  it  prisoner  for  long  hours  in 


DORCHESTER  87 

patient  suffering,  unrelieved  of  any  hope  but 
of  being  torn  from  the  cruel  teeth  and  dashed 
to  death  against  a  wall.  Yet  thousands  of 
owls  have  been  destroyed  for  the  sake  of  a  few 
pheasants  in  the  coverts,  and  after  all  the  mischief 
done  by  hawks  and  owls  has  been  greatly  exag- 
gerated—it is  part  of  the  hereditary  ignorance  of 
the  rustic.  Perhaps  if  we  are  in  ferny  glades  of 
Yellowham  Woods  "  when  light  on  dark  is  grow- 
ing "  we  may  hear  that  curious  sound  which  has 
been  compared  to  the  quacking  of  a  duck  with 
a  sore  throat,  and  after  it  a  sniffing  sound  not 
unlike  a  dog  might  make  while  scratching  at  a 
rat-hole.  This  is  a  hedgehog  taking  his  constitu- 
tional. The  witch  in  Macbeth  says,  "  Thrice  the 
hedgepig  whines,"  but  as  my  acquaintance  with 
"  hedgepigs  "  goes,  their  conversation  is  limited  to 
a  "  quack  "  and  a  "  snuff." 

Fordington  is  a  large  suburb  adjoining  Dor- 
chester. The  Church  of  St  George  is  a  fine  old 
edifice,  with  a  tall  battlemented  tower  which  is  a 
landmark  for  those  approaching  the  town  by  road. 
Within  is  a  stone  pulpit  dated  "  1592,  E.R."  Over 
the  top  of  a  doorway  of  the  south  porch  there  is 
a  carving  of  great  antiquity  representing  a  vision 
of  St  George  at  the  battle  of  Antioch.  The  saint, 
mounted,  has  thrust  his  spear  into  the  mouth  of 
a  Saracen  soldier  with  great  force  and  unerring 


88  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

aim.  He  looks  very  bored  and  might  be  saying : 
"  This  is  very  tame  sport  to  one  who  is  accus- 
tomed to  slaying  dragons."  No  doubt  the  semi- 
prone  Saracen,  who  is  trying  to  pull  the  spear 
out  of  his  mouth,  feels  very  bored  too  ! 

Away  to  the  east  of  Fordington  is  the  little 
village  of  Stinsford,  which  is  reached  by  leaving 
Dorchester  by  the  road  leading  east  to  Puddle- 
town  and  bearing  to  the  right  soon  after  leav- 
ing the  town.  This  is  the  "  Mellstock "  of  the 
idyllic  tale,  Under  the  Greenwood  Tree.  In  the 
churchyard  of  the  ivy-covered  church  there  are 
tombstones  of  members  of  the  Hardy  family,  and 
on  the  face  of  the  tower  there  is  a  bas-relief  of 
St  Michael.  The  parish  school  is  one  in  which 
Fancy  Day  is  introduced  as  the  new  teacher  at 
Mellstock  in  Under  the  Greenwood  Tree.  "The 
Fiddler  of  the  Reels,"  Mop  Ollamore,  whose  dia- 
bolical skill  with  the  fiddle  produced  a  "  moving 
effect  "  on  people's  souls,  lived  in  one  of  the 
thatched  cottages  of  this  village. 

To  the  south  of  Dorchester  are  the  Winterborne 
villages,  all  places  of  rural  content,  in  the  shallow 
valley  of  a  stream  which  only  becomes  visible  in 
the  winter.  The  church  of  Winterborne  Steeple- 
ton  possesses  an  ancient  stone  steeple.  In  the 
porch— a  cool  grey  place  on  the  hottest  day— 
there  are  stone  seats  and  flagstones  of  hoary 


DORCHESTER  89 

antiquity,  and  on  the  outer  wall  is  an  angel  carved 
in  stone  which  is  said  to  date  from  before  the 
Conquest.  The  most  interesting  of  the  Winter- 
homes  is  Came.  Barnes,  the  Dorset  poet,  was 
rector  here  for  the  last  twenty -five  years  of  his 
life.  The  church  is  a  thirteenth-century  building, 
hidden  in  a  hollow  among  flowers,  winding  paths, 
outbuildings  and  cottages  of  an  unattractive 
mansion.  Barnes  is  buried  beneath  a  simple 
cross  in  the  churchyard.  Herringtone  adjoins 
Came,  and  its  chief  feature  is  the  old  manor- 
house,  the  seat  of  the  Herring  family,  and,  since 
James  I.'s  reign,  of  the  Williamses.  Winterborne 
Monkton  and  Winterborne  St  Martin  are  both 
contiguous  to  Maiden  Castle.  The  old  church  of 
the  former  has  been  much  restored ;  that  of  the 
latter  contains  a  Norman  font  and  some  old  stone 
shafts  near  the  altar. 

The  pilgrim  who  shall  elect  to  reach  Abbotsbury 
will  find  a  road,  which  forks  by  a  picturesque 
old  pond,  about  half-an-hour's  walk  towards 
Winterborne  Abbas. 

It  will  be  noticed  in  some  of  Hardy's  novels  that 
the  name  of  a  village  or  town  will  often  crop  up 
in  the  name  of  a  character,  as,  for  instance, 
Jude  Fawley  living  in  Marygreen,  which  may  be 
identified  with  the  village  of  Fawley  Magna,  in 
Berkshire  ;  and  the  name  of  the  schoolmaster  of 


90  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

Leddenton,  really  the  village  of  Gillingham,  near 
Shaftesbuiy,  is  Gillingham.  It  was  at  Fawley 
Magna  church  that  Phillotson  and  Sue  were 
married  after  she  had  parted  from  Jude :  "  A  tall 
new  building  of  German  Gothic  design,  unfamiliar 
to  English  eyes,  had  been  erected  on  a  new  piece 
of  ground  by  a  certain  obliterator  of  historic 
records  who  had  run  down  from  London  and  back 
in  a  day.  The  site  whereon  so  long  had  stood  the 
ancient  temple  to  the  Christian  divinities  was  not 
even  recorded  on  the  green  and  level  grass-plot  that 
had  immemorially  been  the  churchyard,  the  obliter- 
ated graves  being  commemorated  by  ninepenny 
cast-iron  crosses  warranted  to  last  five  years." 

The  unusual  way  in  which  the  town  of  Dor- 
chester met  in  one  line  with  the  open  country  is 
picturesquely  described  by  Hardy  :  "  The  farmer's 
boy  could  sit  under  the  barley  mow  and  pitch  a 
stone  into  the  office  window  of  the  town  clerk  .  .  . 
the  red-robed  judge,  when  he  condemned  a  sheep- 
stealer,  pronounced  sentence  to  the  tune  of  Baa, 
that  floated  in  from  the  remainder  of  the  flock 
browsing  hard  by ;  and  at  executions  the  waiting 
crowd  stood  in  a  meadow  immediately  before  the 
drop  out  of  which  the  cows  had  been  temporarily 
driven  to  give  the  spectators  room." 

The  intermixture  of  town  and  country  life  is 
again  touched  upon  in  a  sketch  of  Fordington  : 


DORCHESTER  91 

"  Here  wheat  ricks  overhung  the  old  Roman 
street,  and  thrust  their  eaves  against  the  church 
tower ;  great  thatched  barns  with  doorways  as 
high  as  the  gates  of  Solomon's  Temple  opened 
directly  upon  the  main  thoroughfare.  Barns, 
indeed,  were  so  numerous  as  to  alternate  with 
every  half-dozen  houses  along  the  way.  Here 
lived  burgesses  who  daily  walked  the  fallow — 
shepherds  in  an  intramural  squeeze." 

The  original  manuscript  of  The  Mayor  of  Caster- 
bridge,  which  is  described  in  the  Dorchester  Guide 
by  Harry  Pouncy  (published  by  Longman,  Corn- 
hill  Press,  Dorchester),  as  "  an  example  of  rare 
beauty  of  penmanship  and  of  absorbing  interest, 
especially  in  regard  to  the  alterations  "  is  now  in 
the  Dorset  County  Museum.  The  leaves  of  the 
manuscript  have  been  bound  in  book  form,  and 
Captain  Acland,  the  Curator,  informs  me  the  bind- 
ing has  resulted  in  the  edges  of  the  paper  being 
cut,  and  the  top  edges  being  gilt.  Let  us  hope  that 
the  marginal  notes  have  not  been  maimed  by  the 
binder's  guillotine— that  is,  if  any  marginal  notes 
were  added.  However,  the  "  absorbingly  interest- 
ing alterations  "  are  not  yet  for  the  public  gaze, 
and  Captain  Acland  was  immovable  before  my 
entreaties  to  be  allowed  to  make  notes  on  them. 

A  most  interesting  jaunt  from  Dorchester  is 
along  the  Sherborne  Road  northward  for  eight 


92  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

miles  to  Cerne  Abbas.  The  road  from  Dorchester 
bears  to  the  left  not  far  from  the  Great  Western 
Railway  and  follows  the  River  Frome.  A  mile 
along  the  road  on  the  right,  lying  back  and  sur- 
rounded by  trees,  is  Wolverton  House,  which 
figures  in  Hardy's  Group  of  Noble  Dames.  This 
was  formerly  the  seat  of  the  knightly  Trenchards, 
and  is  an  interesting  fifteenth  -  century  house 
which  has  obtained  a  niche  in  history  thus  :  "In 
this  house  John  Russel,  Esq.,  of  Berwick,  laid 
the  foundation  of  the  honours  and  fortunes  of  the 
illustrious  family  of  the  Duke  of  Bedford.  Having 
resided  some  years  in  Spain,  he  was  sent  for  by 
his  relation,  Sir  Thomas  Trenchard,  to  attend 
and  entertain  the  Arch-Duke  of  Austria,  King  of 
Castile,  who  recommended  him  to  the  notice  of 
King  Henry  VII.,  who  took  him  into  favour,  and 
appointed  him  one  of  the  Gentlemen  of  his  Privy 
Chamber ;  and  afterwards  recommended  him  to 
his  son  Henry  VIII."  (Hutchins).  The  Russels 
were  seated  at  Kingston  Russel,  where  their  old 
manor-house  still  remains.  Wolverton  was  in 
later  days  the  scene  of  a  dread  omen  recorded 
by  credulous  Aubrey.  The  chief  feature  of  the 
hall  was  a  screen  carven  with  the  effigies  of  the 
kings  of  England ;  and  "  on  the  third  of  Nov., 
1640,  the  day  the  Long  Parliament  began  to  sit, 
the  sceptre  fell  from  the  figure  of  King  Charles 


DORCHESTER  95 

the  First,  while  the  family  and  a  large  company 
were  at  dinner  in  the  parlour."  No  wonder,  when 
the  Trenchard  of  that  day  proved  a  sturdy  rebel, 
and  did  yeoman  service  for  the  Parliament  in  the 
county. 

Lady  Penelope,  in  Hardy's  A  Group  of  Noble 
Dames,  was  not  an  imaginary  character,  but  a 
noble  dame  in  real  life.  She  was  a  daughter  of 
Lord  Darcy  and  in  turn  married  George  Trench- 
ard, Sir  John  Gage  and  Sir  William  Hervey. 
She  is  described  in  Hardy's  story  as  "  a  lady  of 
noble  family  and  extraordinary  beauty.  She 
was  of  the  purest  descent.  .  .  .  She  possessed 
no  great  wealth  .  .  .  but  was  sufficiently  en- 
dowed. Her  beauty  was  so  perfect,  and  her 
manner  so  entrancing,  that  suitors  seemed  to 
spring  out  of  the  ground  wherever  she  went." 
The  three  suitors  mentioned  above  would  not  be 
repulsed,  and  she  jestingly  promised  to  marry  all 
three  in  turn.  In  the  end  Fate  determined  that 
her  jest  should  fall  true.  First  Penelope  married 
Sir  George  Drenghard,  who  in  the  course  of  a  few 
months  died.  A  little  while  after  she  became 
the  wife  of  Sir  John  Gale,  who  treated  her  rather 
badly.  Two  or  three  years  after  he  died  and  Sir 
William  Hervy  came  forward.  In  a  short  time 
she  became  Hervy's  wife,  and  thus  her  promise, 
which  was  made  so  lightly,  became  an  established 


96  THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

fact.  But  the  canker-worm  of  rumour  attributed 
the  death  of  Sir  John  Gale  to  poison  given  him  by 
his  wife,  and  Sir  William,  believing  it,  went  abroad 
and  remained  there.  Penelope  divined  the  cause 
of  his  departure,  and  she  grieved  so  much  that 
at  last  nothing— not  even  Sir  William's  return  — 
availed  to  save  her,  and  she  died  broken-hearted. 
Sir  William  afterwards  was  assured  by  the  doctor 
who  had  examined  Gale's  body  that  there  was  no 
ground  for  the  cruel  suspicions,  and  that  his  death 
resulted  from  natural  causes. 

The  road  continues  through  Charminster,  a 
large  and  scattered  village,  and  steadily  ascends 
to  Godmanston,  five  miles  from  Dorchester. 

A  mile  beyond,  the  road  still  rising,  is  Nether 
Cerne,  with  a  tiny  church,  prettily  situated. 
Steadily  climbing  another  two  miles,  we  reach 
Cerne  Abbas,  an  exceedingly  interesting  little 
place,  surrounded  by  chalk  hills,  on  the  River 
Cerne.  It  derives  its  distinguishing  name  from 
an  abbey,  which  was  founded  in  memory  of 
Edmund  the  Martyr,  King  of  East  Anglia,  who 
met  his  death  at  the  hands  of  the  Danes 
A.D.  870.  It  was  erected  about  a  hundred  years 
later  and  was  a  place  of  some  importance.  Canute 
plundered  the  church.  Here  Margaret  of  Anjou 
sought  refuge  on  the  day  following  her  landing 
at  Weymouth,  when  she  received  tidings  of  the 


DORCHESTER  97 

defeat  of  her  cause  at  the  battle  of  Barnet,  1471. 
The  remains  consist  of  a  gate-house,  bearing  the 
escutcheon  of  the  abbey,  and  those  of  the  Earl  of 
Cornwall,  Fitz-James  and  Beauford;  the  abbey- 
barn,  a  long,  buttressed  building,  and  some  traces 
of  the  park  and  gardens. 

The  church,  dedicated  to  St  Mary,  is  of  Perpen- 
dicular style  and  supposed  to  have  been  built  by 
the  abbots. 

Immediately  above  the  town  rises  a  lofty 
eminence,  popularly  called  the  Giant's  Hill,  from 
an  uncouth  colossal  figure  cut  on  its  chalky 
surface.  It  represents  a  man,  180  feet  in  height, 
holding  in  his  right  hand  a  club  and  stretching 
forth  the  other.  "  Vulgar  tradition,"  says 
Britton,  "  makes  this  figure  commemorate  the 
destruction  of  a  giant,  who,  having  feasted  on 
some  sheep  in  Blackmoor,  and  laid  himself  to 
sleep  on  this  hill,  was  pinioned  down,  like  another 
Gulliver,  and  killed  by  the  enraged  peasants, 
who  immediately  traced  his  dimensions  for  the 
information  of  posterity."  On  the  summit  of 
the  hill  is  an  entrenchment  called  Trendle  (i.e.  a 
circle,  Saxon).  The  Cerne  giant  is  believed  by 
some  authorities  to  be  of  Phoenician  origin  and 
to  represent  Baal,  but  no  one  really  knows  much 
about  him,  and,  it  must  be  also  added,  the  Dorset 
rustic  cares  very  little  about  the  matter. 
G 


CHAPTER  VI 

A   LITERARY  NOTE:    THOMAS   HARDY  AND 
WILLIAM   BARNES 

THOMAS  HARDY  is  a  Dorset  man  both 
by  birth  and  residence.  He  was  born 
on  2nd  June  1840,  in  a  pretty,  thatched  cottage 
in  the  hamlet  of  Higher  Bockhampton.  If  one 
takes  the  London  road  out  of  Dorchester,  a  walk 
of  a  mile  and  a  turn  to  the  right  will  lead  to 
the  village  of  Stinsford ;  passing  this  hamlet 
and  keeping  to  the  road  which  crosses  Kingston 
Park,  a  turn  to  the  left  breaks  on  to  Higher 
Bockhampton.  The  house  stands  on  the  edge 
of  Thoreycombe  Wood,  skirting  Bockhampton 
Heath,  but  Hardy  has  told  us  that  within  the  last 
fifty  years  the  wood  enclosed  the  house  on  every 
side. 

Come  into  this  old-world  dwelling  itself.  The 
living-room  is  grey  and  white  and  dim.  Ivy 
peers  in  at  the  open  windows  set  deep  in  the  thick 
walls.  The  floor  is  grey  and  shining,  stone-flagged ; 
the  ceiling  cross-beamed  with  rich  old  oak;  the 
fireplace  wide  and  deep,  and  the  whole  building 
covered  with  a  fine  roof  of  thatch.  Here  the 

98 


THOMAS  HARDY  &  WILLIAM  BARNES    99 

earlier  years  of  the  novelist  were  spent,  here  the 
aroma  of  the  earth  and  woods  invaded  his  heart 
when  it  was  young.  The  environment  helped  to 
feed  the  long,  long  thoughts  of  the  boy  and  gave 
him  the  image  of  the  beginning  of  man  living  in 
the  woods  in  the  darkness,  outwitting  the  wolves. 
It  was  here  in  the  cradle  of  nature  that  Hardy 
first  gained  his  minute  knowledge  of  nature,  and 
learnt  how  life  and  the  meaning  of  life  must  be 
linked  with  place  and  the  meaning  of  place.  As 
in  old  Greek  drama  the  chorus  was  directed  to 
the  audience  at  certain  stages,  so  does  Hardy 
turn  the  place  spirit  upon  the  progress  of  the  stoiy 
at  certain  moments  with  a  vital  bearing  upon  the 
action.  He  sees,  as  only  the  artist  can  see,  how 
all  the  world  is  interwoven,  and  how  the  human 
spirit  cannot  be  divorced  from  the  plain  course 
of  nature  without  pity  and  disaster.  To  Hardy's 
delicate  subtlety  of  mind  in  perceiving  the  right 
values  of  character  and  environment  we  owe  the 
tremendous  effect  of  certain  great  scenes :  the 
selection  of  Woolbridge  House,  the  antique  and 
dismal  old  home  of  the  Turbervilles,  for  the  scene 
of  Tess's  confession ;  the  thunderstorm  during 
which  Oak  saved  his  beloved  Bathsheba's  ricks ; 
the  mist  that  rolled  wickedly  over  the  cart  con- 
veying Fanny  Robin's  body  from  the  workhouse, 
and  produced  the  horrible  drip — drip— drip  on 


100        THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

the  coffin  while  the  drivers  caroused  in  an  inn ; 
the  strange  scene  where  Wildeve,  "  the  Rousseau 
of  Egdon,"  and  the  travelling  ruddleman  dice  for 
Mrs  Yeobright's  money  by  the  light  of  glow- 
worms. The  delineation  of  Norcombe  Hill  at 
the  commencement  of  Far  from  the  Madding 
Crowd  sets  the  key  to  which  the  theme  of  the 
story  must  always  return  after  many  delightful 
changes,  and  the  vivid  account  of  the  lonely 
monarchy  of  the  shepherd's  night  with  his  sheep, 
and  the  opulent  silence  when  "  the  roll  of  the 
world  eastward  is  almost  a  palpable  movement  " 
show  the  power  and  relentless  grip  of  Hardy's 
work.  Incidentally,  also,  with  what  fascinating 
detail  does  he  introduce  Bathsheba  Everdene  to 
the  reader,  so  that  we  at  once  perceive  what  a 
curious  blend  of  joyfulness,  pride,  astuteness  and 
irresponsibility  she  would  gradually  develop  as 
the  years  pass  on— witness  the  little  incident  at 
the  toll-gate,  where,  seated  on  the  top  of  the 
loaded  wagon,  she  refused  to  concede  his  rightful 
pence  to  the  aggrieved  turnpike-keeper. 

The  name  of  Hardy  is  very  frequently  en- 
countered in  Dorset,  but  the  novelist's  family  is 
commonly  said  to  be  of  the  same  blood  as 
Nelson's  Hardy.  That  Hardy's  family  possessed 
the  sprightliness  and  resource  of  the  Dorset  people 
there  can  be  little  doubt,  and  this  fact  is 


Bing  fiam's    M elcomk e 

(Ten  miles  north-east  of  Dorchester) 
A  LOVELY  DORSET  MANOR-HOUSE 


THOMAS  HARDY  &  WILLIAM  BARNES     103 

accentuated  by  an  anecdote  concerning  Hardy's 
grandfather,  told  by  Mr  Alfred  Pope,  a  member  of 
the  Dorset  Field  Club,  at  a  meeting  of  the  society. 
About  a  century  ago  Mr  Hardy's  grandfather  was 
crossing  a  lonely  heath  one  midnight  in  June 
when  he  discovered  he  was  being  followed  by  two 
footpads.  He  rolled  a  furze  faggot  on  to  the  path, 
sat  down  on  it,  took  off  his  hat,  stuck  two  fern 
fronds  behind  his  ears  to  represent  horns,  and 
then  pretended  to  read  a  letter,  which  he  took 
from  his  pocket,  by  the  light  of  the  glow-worms 
he  had  picked  up  and  placed  round  the  brim  of 
his  hat.  The  men  took  fright  and  bolted  on  see- 
ing him,  and  a  rumour  soon  got  abroad  in  the 
neighbourhood  that  the  devil  had  been  seen  at 
midnight  near  Greenhill  Pond. 

At  the  age  of  seventeen  Hardy  was  articled  to 
an  ecclesiastical  architect  of  Dorchester  named 
Hicks,  and  it  was  in  pursuance  of  this  calling 
that  he  enjoyed  many  opportunities  of  studying 
not  only  architecture,  but  also  the  country  folk, 
whose  types  he  has  been  so  successful  in  de- 
lineating. Architecture  has  deeply  coloured  all 
his  work,  from  Desperate  Remedies  to  Jude  the 
Obscure.  The  former  of  these  stories  (in  which, 
as  it  will  be  remembered,  three  of  the  characters 
are  architects  practising  the  miscellaneous  voca- 
tions of  stewards,  land  surveyors  and  the  like, 


104        THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

familiar  to  architects  in  country  towns)  appeared 
in  1871,  signed  only  with  initials.  It  was  followed 
in  the  next  year  by  Under  the  Greenwood  Tree, 
and  at  this  date  Hardy  departed  from  architec- 
ture (in  which  he  had  distinguished  himself  so  far 
as  to  be  a  prize-winner  at  a  Royal  Society's  com- 
petition). In  1873  A  Pair  of  Blue  Eyes  appeared, 
and  in  1874  Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd  ran 
through  the  Cornhill.  It  was  the  first  of  his 
books  to  be  published  in  yellow-backed  form, 
which  was  then  a  sign  that  the  novel  had  reached 
the  highest  point  of  popularity. 

His  first  novel,  The  Poor  Man  and  the  Lady, 
was  never  published,  and  probably  never  will  be, 
having  been  suppressed  at  Hardy's  own  request, 
although  accepted  for  publication  on  the  advice 
of  George  Meredith.  But  it  was  not  long  before 
he  had  finished  a  second  story,  Desperate  Remedies, 
which  first  saw  the  light  through  the  agency  of 
Tinsley  Brothers  in  1871. 

His  first  published  article  appeared  without 
signature  in  Chambers' s  Journal,  on  18th  March 
1865,  entitled,  "  How  I  Built  Myself  a  House," 
and  was  of  a  semi-humorous  character.  But 
previous  to  this  Hardy  had  written  a  considerable 
amount  of  verse,  all  of  which,  with  the  exception 
of  one  poem,  The  Fire  at  Tranter  Sweatley's,  was 
unfortunately  destroyed.  This  Wessex  ballad 


THOMAS  HARDY  &  WILLIAM  BARNES    105 

appeared,  bowdlerised,  in  The  Gentleman's  Maga- 
zine in  November  1875.  The  ballad  was  first 
reproduced  in  its  original  form  at  the  end  of  Mr 
Lane's  bibliography,  together  with  the  novelist's 
biographical  note  on  his  friend  and  neighbour, 
the  Rev.  William  Barnes,  the  Dorset  poet,  con- 
tributed to  The  Athenceum  in  October  1886.  Of 
Mr  Hardy's  remaining  contributions  to  periodical 
literature  in  other  directions  than  fiction  I  need, 
perhaps,  only  mention  his  paper  on  "  The  Dorset 
Labourer,"  published  in  Longmans'  in  July  1893. 

The  Trumpet  Major  was  published  in  1881, 
and  the  next  novel  was  A  Laodicean,  which 
appeared  originally  in  Harper's  Magazine. 

"  The  writing  of  this  tale,"  says  Mr  Hardy  in 
the  new  preface  to  the  book,  "  was  rendered 
memorable,  to  two  persons  at  least,  by  a  tedious 
illness  of  five  months  that  laid  hold  of  the  author 
soon  after  the  story  was  begun  in  a  well-known 
magazine,  during  which  period  the  narrative  had 
to  be  strenuously  continued  by  dictation  to  a  pre- 
determined cheerful  ending.  As  some  of  these 
novels  of  Wessex  life  address  themselves  more 
especially  to  readers  into  whose  soul  the  iron  has 
entered,  and  whose  years  have  less  pleasure  in 
them  now  than  heretofore,  so  A  Laodicean  may 
perhaps  help  to  wile  away  an  idle  afternoon  of 
the  comfortable  ones  whose  lines  have  fallen  to 


106         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

them  in  pleasant  places ;  above  all,  of  that  large 
and  happy  section  of  the  reading  public  which 
has  not  yet  reached  ripeness  of  years ;  those  to 
whom  marriage  is  the  pilgrim's  Eternal  City,  and 
not  a  milestone  on  the  way." 

Hardy's  next  novel,  Two  on  a  Tower,  was  pub- 
lished in  three  volumes  in  1882.  Four  years 
elapsed  before  Mr  Hardy's  tenth  novel,  The  Mayor 
of  Casterbridge,  made  its  appearance,  though  his 
story  of  The  Romantic  Adventures  of  a  Milkmaid, 
which  came  out  in  The  Graphic  Summer  Number 
in  1883,  was  reprinted  in  book  form  in  America 
in  1884.  The  Woodlanders  came  next,  this  time 
through  Messrs  Macmillan,  who  published  it  in 
1887  in  three  volumes.  Wessex  Tales,  in  two 
volumes,  appeared  in  1888,  though  the  stories 
had  been  making  their  appearance  in  various 
periodicals  since  1879. 

In  1891  came  Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles,  which 
took  the  reading  and  criticising  world  by  surprise. 
Hardy  became  explicit  and  charged  the  collective 
judgment  of  society  with  being  shallow  and  con- 
trary to  the  laws  of  nature.  He  dashed  aside  the 
conventions  and  proclaimed  a  "  ruined  "  girl  a 
"  pure  woman,"  and  made  definite  charges  against 
the  code  of  society,  which,  in  the  belief  that  it 
was  contending  against  immorality,  was  all  the 
while  destroying  some  of  nature's  finest  and  most 


THOMAS  HARDY  &  WILLIAM  BARNES    107 

sensitive  material.  Hardy  does  not  preach,  but 
there  is  more  than  a  dramatic  situation  in  Angel 
Clare's  confession  to  Tess  on  the  night  of  their 
wedding,  for  he  shows  the  hopelessness  of  any 
justice  coming  to  the  "  fallen  "  girl.  Even  if  Tess 
had  been  faultless,  all  her  faith,  devotion,  love 
and  essential  sweetness  would  have  been  given  to 
an  unjust  and  sinful  man.  The  whole  situation 
is  summed  up  in  the  conversation  which  follows 
Angel  Clare's  confession  of  an  "  eight-and-forty 
hours'  '  dissipation.  Hardy  shows  (and  en- 
dorses) that  it  was  quite  right  that  Tess,  with 
her  natural,  unsophisticated  intelligence,  should 
look  upon  her  loss  of  virginity  out  of  wedlock 
as  a  thing  to  be  regretted  and  also  a  thing  to  be 
forgiven — just  as  the  same  event  in  Angel  Clare's 
life: 

"  Perhaps,  although  you  smile,  it  is  as  serious 
as  yours  or  more  so." 

"  It  can  hardly  be  more  serious,  dearest." 

"It  cannot— oh  no,  it  cannot."  She  jumped 
up  joyfully  at  the  hope.  "  No,  it  cannot  be  more 
serious,  certainly,"  she  cried,  "because  'tis  just 
the  same !  " 

For  life  and  light  and  movement  it  would  be 
hard  to  surpass  Chapter  XXVIII.  of  Far  from 
the  Madding  Crowd,  where  Sergeant  Troy's  skilful 
and  dazzling  exhibition  with  a  sword  bewilders 


108        THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

Bathsheba  and  ends  in  that  unpropitious,  fugitive 
kiss. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that,  although  Hardy's 
novels  are  such  a  true  living  influence,  there  are 
many  people  who  feel  that  as  a  poet  he  has  some- 
how just  failed  to  hit  the  mark.  But  he  himself 
regards  his  verse  as  the  most  important  part  of 
his  work,  and  a  section  of  his  readers  look  upon  it 
as  the  most  distinctive  English  poetry  of  the  past 
twenty  years.  In  some  quarters  his  poems  are 
received  with  that  curiosity  which  is  awarded  to 
a  man  of  genius  who  breaks  out  freakishly  with 
some  strange  hobby.  People  might  look  upon 
Rudyard  Kipling  with  just  such  curiosity  if  he 
invited  his  friends  to  inspect  his  latest  experiments 
in  fretwork.  However,  to  those  of  us  who  have 
followed  his  lyric  poems  and  his  supreme  achieve- 
ment, The  Dynasts,  it  seems  a  well-nigh  inexplic- 
able phenomenon  that  much  of  his  poetry  should 
have  passed  into  the  limbo  of  forgotten  things. 
Is  there  something  wrong  with  his  poems,  or  un- 
usual about  them  ?  There  is  certainly  a  puzzling 
quality  in  his  work.  When  his  Wessex  Poems 
were  published  in  1 899  the  reviewers,  in  a  chorus, 
decided  that  it  was  "  want  of  form "  which 
weakened  his  verse,  and  it  is  interesting  to 
read  how  Literature  summed  up  his  position  as 
a  poet : 


THOMAS  HARDY  &  WILLIAM  BARNES     109 

"  Here  is  no  example  of  that  positive  inability 
to  write  well  in  verse  which  has  marked  several 
great  prose  writers,  such  as  in  Carlyle  and  Hume  ; 
nor  of  that  still  more  curious  ability  to  write  once 
or  twice  well,  and  never  to  regain  the  careless 
rapture,  as  in  Berkeley  and  Chateaubriand.  The 
phenomenon  is  a  strongly  marked  and  appropri- 
ate accent  of  his  own,  composing  (so  to  speak) 
professionally  in  verse,  able  to  amuse  and  move 
us  along  lines  strictly  parallel  with  his  prose,  and 
yet  lacking  something.  This  is  not  a  case  like 
George  Eliot's,  where  the  essence  of  the  writer's 
style  evaporates  in  the  restraint  of  verse.  Never 
was  Mr  Hardy  more  intensely  and  exclusively 
himself  than  in  '  My  Cicely.'  Yet  is  this  a  com- 
plete success  ?  Much  as  we  admire  it,  we  cannot 
say  that  it  is. 

" '  And  by  Weatherbury  Castle,  and  therence 

Through  Casterbridge  bore  I 
To  tomb  her  whose  light,  in  my  deeming, 
Extinguished  had  He,' 

is  not  quite  satisfactory.  Why  ?  Simply  and 
solely  because  the  form  is  grotesque.  Here  is  the 
colour  of  poetry  but  not  its  sound,  its  essence  but 
not  its  shape. 

"  It  might  seem  only  right  that  in  the  face  of  a 
volume  of  verse  so  violent  and  rugged  as  Wessex 
Poems  we  should  protest  that  this  is  not  the  more 


110        THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

excellent  way  of  writing  poetry.  At  the  same 
time,  every  man  must  preserve  his  individuality, 
if  he  has  one  to  preserve,  as  Mr  Hardy  assuredly 
has  ;  and  we  have  no  reason  to  suppose  that  it  is 
the  desire  of  the  author  of  '  The  Peasant's  Confes- 
sion' to  found  a  school  or  issue  a  propaganda. 
On  the  contrary,  it  is  far  more  likely  that  he  has 
put  forth  his  Wessex  verses  with  extreme  sim- 
plicity and  modesty,  not  asking  himself  in  what 
relation  they  stand  to  other  people's  poetry.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  the  Wessex  Poems  will  probably 
enjoy  a  double  fate.  They  will  supply  to  lovers 
of  emotional  narrative  verse  several  poetic  tales 
which  they  will  lay  up  in  memory  among  their 
treasures ;  and  in  time  to  come  professors  of 
literary  history,  when  observing  the  retrogression 
of  an  imaginative  period,  and  when  speaking  of 
Lydgate,  of  Donne,  of  the  Spasmodists  here,  of 
the  Symbolists  in  France,  will  mention  Mr  Hardy 
also  as  a  signal  example  of  the  temporary  success 
of  a  violent  protest  against  the  cultivation  of  form 
inverse." 

But  critics  of  discrimination  are  now  beginning 
to  discover  that  Thomas  Hardy's  poems  do  not 
lack  the  qualities  which  give  poetic  form  a  true 
balance.  He  fails  to  achieve  popularity  as  a  poet, 
they  argue,  because  the  "  concentrated  and  un- 
palatable expression  of  his  philosophy  proves  too 


THOMAS  HARDY  &  WILLIAM  BARNES     111 

disagreeable  to  those  who  seek  relief  from  life  in 
literature,"  and  because  the  first  shock  of  the 
grinding  harshness  of  his  peculiar  style  "is  a 
barrier  against  the  recognition  of  his  merits." 
Certainly  he  makes  no  direct  appeal  to  the  ear  of 
the  reader.  But  on  reading  his  lyric  poems  a 
second  time— some  of  which,  it  must  be  admitted, 
must  assuredly  offend  those  who  have  unbounded 
faith  in  the  human  soul,  whether  from  the  stand- 
point of  the  Church  or  otherwise — the  first 
grotesqueness  of  effect  wears  off,  leaving  at  times 
a  clear-cut  and  bitter  touch  that  it  would  seem 
impossible  to  improve  upon.  It  is  true  we  find 
among  the  youthful  poems  some  of  great  gloom 
and  sadness,  but  it  is  well  to  bear  in  mind  when 
making  an  estimate  of  Hardy's  work  and  person- 
ality that  certain  natures  express  their  thoughts 
in  unusual  ways.  It  is  all  the  time  wrong  to 
assume  that  Hardy  does  not  perceive  anything 
else  in  life  but  a  bitter  and  hopeless  procession, 
just  because  his  eloquence  is  always  keener  upon 
perceiving  tragedy.  It  is  true,  he  himself  has 
confessed,  that  he  shares  with  Sophocles  the  con- 
viction that  "  not  to  be  born  is  best  "  ;  but  at 
the  same  time  the  spirit  which  moves  always 
under  the  surface  of  his  poetry  tells  us  that  man, 
being  born,  must  make  the  best  of  life,  and 
especially  do  what  he  can  to  ease  the  burdens  of 


112        THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

his  fellow-men.  After  his  moments  of  depression 
he  finds  his  own  consolations.  He  takes  a  great 
pleasure  in  the  trivial  little  objects  and  customs 
of  rustic  life— those  simple  things  that  are  best 
of  all,  and  his  poem  Afterwards  is  a  good  ex- 
ample both  of  his  measured  and  harmonious 
style,  and  of  his  "  dark,  unconscious  instinct  of 
primitive  nature- worship  "  : 

"  If  I  pass  during  some  nocturnal  blackness,  mothy 

and  warm, 
When  the  hedgehog  travels  furtively  over  the 

lawn, 
One  may  say,   '  He  strove  that   such  innocent 

creatures  should  come  to  no  harm, 
But  he  could  do  little  for  them ;    and  now  he  is 

gone.' 

If,  when  hearing  that  I  have  been  stilled  at  last, 

they  stand  at  the  door, 

Watching  the  full-starred  heavens  that  Winter  sees, 
Will  this  thought  rise  on  those  who  will  meet  my 

face  no  more, 
'  He  was  one  who  had  an  eye  for  such  mysteries '  ?  " 

The  reader  instinctively  pictures  Hardy  as  a 
morose,  grim,  cynical  man — but  he  is  really  any- 
thing but  that.  From  all  accounts  Hardy  is 
mirrored  in  the  whimsical  and  deep  mirth  that  is 
so  intermixed  in  the  rustic  characters  in  his  novels. 
"  It  is  too  often  assumed,"  says  the  capricious 
and  tiresome  Ethelberta  — April-natured  Hardy 


THOMAS  HARDY  &  WILLIAM  BARNES     113 

would  call  her — "  that  a  person's  fancy  is  a 
person's  real  mind.  .  .  .  Some  of  the  lightest  of 
rhymes  were  composed  between  the  deepest  fits 
of  dismals  I  have  known." 

Some  years  ago  The  English  Illustrated  Maga- 
zine printed  an  account  of  a  visit  paid  by  a  cyclist 
to  Hardy  at  his  Dorchester  home.  Authentic 
pictures  of  Hardy  are  so  scarce  that  I  venture  to 
draw  on  this  interview  : 

"  The  picture  he  presented  was,  for  the  moment 
at  least,  all- satisfy  ing ;  there  was  more  than 
nervousness  in  the  strangely  harassed-looking 
face,  with  the  most  sensitive  features  that  I  had 
ever  seen.  The  deep- set  eyes  were  troubled,  but 
there  was  no  mistaking  their  fearless  courage.  I 
knew  that  I  was  looking  at  a  man  whose  soul  was 
more  ravaged  than  ever  his  careworn  features 
were  with  the  riddle  of  life  and  the  tragedy  of 
it,  and  yet  a  soul  utterly  self-reliant,  for  all  the 
shyness  of  the  outward  man. 

"  I  attempted  no  compliments,  and  asked  him 
instead  why  he  was  so  pessimistic  a  writer,  why  he 
wrote  at  once  the  most  beautiful  and  the  most 
dreadful  of  stories,  and  why  he  had  not  shown  us 
far  more  often  than  he  has  done  a  picture  of 
requited  love,  or  of  requited  love  that  was  not 
victimised  at  once  by  some  pitiless  act  of  fate. 

"  Mr  Hardy  had  not  sat  down  himself,  but  had 


114        THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

stood  by  the  fireplace,  with  his  white  hands  hold- 
ing the  lapels  of  his  old-fashioned  tweed  coat. 

"We  were  on  better  terms  in  a  moment,  as 
Mr  Hardy  replied,  his  voice  curiously  halting,  but 
not  as  if  he  was  in  any  doubt  of  his  sentiments. 
It  seemed  a  mixture  of  irony  and  diffidence. 

" '  You  are  a  young  man,'  he  said.  '  The 
cruelty  of  fate  becomes  apparent  to  people  as 
they  grow  older.  At  first  one  may  perhaps  escape 
contact  with  it,  but  if  one  lives  long  enough  one 
realises  that  happiness  is  very  ephemeral.' 

" '  But  is  not  optimism  a  useful  and  sane 
philosophy  ?  '  I  asked  him. 

"  There's  too  much  sham  optimism,  hum- 
bugging and  even  cruel  optimism,'  Mr  Hardy 
retorted.  '  Sham  optimism  is  really  a  more 
heartless  doctrine  to  preach  than  even  an  ex- 
aggerated pessimism— the  latter  leaves  one  at 
least  on  the  safe  side.  There  is  too  much  senti- 
ment in  most  fiction.  It  is  necessary  for  some- 
body to  write  a  little  mercilessly,  although,  of 
course,  it's  painful  to  have  to  do  it." 

That  is  what  we  must  do  if  we  wish  to  move 
on  the  higher  ideal  of  philosophical  speculation 
as  Hardy  explains  it.  He  points  out  that  there 
is  something  in  a  novel  that  should  transcend 
pessimism,  meliorism  or  optimism,  and  that  is 
the  search  for  truth : 


THOMAS  HARDY  &  WILLIAM  BARNES     115 

"So  that  to  say  one  view  is  worse  than  other 
views  without  proving  it  erroneous  implies  the 
possibility  of  a  false  view  being  better  or  more 
expedient  than  a  true  view  ;  and  no  pragmatic 
proppings  can  make  that  idolum  specm  stand  on 
its  feet,  for  it  postulates  a  prescience  denied  to 
humanity." 

Charges  of  pessimism  Hardy  dismisses  as  the 
product  of  the  chubble-headed  people  who  only 
desire  to  pair  all  the  couples  off  at  the  end  of 
a  novel  and  leave  them  with  a  plentiful  supply 
of  "  simply  exquisite  "  babies,  hard  cash  and 
supreme  contentment. 

As  I  have  hinted  before,  the  face  and  the  wealth 
of  the  earth  are  a  constant  joy  to  Hardy,  and  he 
has  great  admiration  for  the  Dorset  rustics — 
those  sprack-witted,  earthy  philosophers  who 
have  won  support  for  his  novels  even  in  circles 
where  his  ideals  of  life  are  not  in  favour.  He 
enthusiastically  follows  the  ways  and  works  of 
nature  in  which  man  co-operates.  One  instantly 
calls  to  mind  Winterborne,  the  travelling  cider- 
maker  in  The  Woodlanders,  as  an  instance  of  this  : 
"  He  looked  and  smelt  like  Autumn's  very  brother, 
his  face  being  sunburnt  to  wheat  colour,  his  eyes 
blue  as  cornflowers,  his  sleeves  and  leggings  dyed 
with  fruit  stains,  his  hands  clammy  with  the  sweet 
juice  of  apples,  his  hat  sprinkled  with  pips,  and 


116        THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

everywhere  about  him  that  atmosphere  of  cider 
which  at  its  first  return  each  season  has  such  an 
indescribable  fascination  for  those  who  have  been 
born  and  bred  among  the  orchards." 

The  above  is  a  prose-poem  which  is  worthy  to 
stand  beside  Keats'  Ode  to  Autumn. 

William  Barnes  was  born  at  Rushay,  near 
Pentridge,  a  village  about  four  miles  from  Cran- 
borne,  in  the  north-east  of  the  county,  on  the 
Wiltshire  border,  and  in  the  heart  of  the  Vale  of 
Blackmore,  the  beauties  of  which  he  was  never 
tired  of  extolling  in  his  gentle  poems  enriched 
with  his  native  dialect.  His  mother  was  a 
woman  of  good  education  and  refined  tastes,  and 
he  attended  an  endowed  school  at  Struminster, 
where  the  classes  were  composed  of  boys  and 
girls  and  conducted  in  the  American  way.  On 
leaving  school  he  entered  a  solicitor's  office  in  the 
same  town,  but  at  the  age  of  eighteen  he  removed 
to  Dorchester.  In  1823  he  went  to  Mere,  in 
Somerset,  where  he  worked  as  a  schoolmaster  for 
four  years  in  loneliness.  At  this  time  he  married 
Miss  Julia  Miles,  and  after  an  additional  eight 
years  at  Mere  he  returned  to  Dorchester,  where 
teaching  was  still  his  profession.  One  might 
almost  say  that  Dorchester  was  his  spiritual 
birthplace,  for  here  his  genius  began  to  attract 


THOMAS  HARDY  &  WILLIAM  BARNES     117 

more  than  local  attention,  and  here  he  grew  into 
the  hearts  of  the  people  so  deeply  that  when  he 
passed  away  all  wished  to  preserve  his  memory 
in  the  form  of  a  public  statue.  Barnes  was  one 
of  the  secretaries  of  the  Dorset  Field  Club.  His 
most  earnest  wish  was  to  enter  the  Church,  and 
from  St  John's  College,  Cambridge,  he  was 
ordained  by  the  Bishop  of  Salisbury  in  1847, 
and  became  pastor  of  Whitcombe.  He  fell  on 
troublous  days  and  passed  through  a  labyrinth 
of  trials — sickness,  death  and  sordid  money  em- 
barrassments. Only  once  did  he  allow  his  pent- 
up  humours  of  discouragement  to  break  loose. 
One  day  he  came  in  to  his  family  with  a  sheaf  of 
correspondence  in  which  letters  from  duns  were 
accompanied  by  others  containing  warm  eulogy 
of  the  poet.  "  What  a  mockery  is  life  !  "  he  ex- 
claimed ;  "  they  praise  me  and  take  away  my 
bread  !  They  might  be  putting  up  a  statue  to 
me  some  day  when  I  am  dead,  while  all  I  want 
now  is  leave  to  live.  I  asked  for  bread  and  they 
gave  me  a  stone,"  he  added  bitterly.  At  about 
this  time  he  was  awarded  a  Civil  List  pension  of 
seventy  pounds  a  year,  while  the  gift  of  the  living 
of  Came  relieved  him  of  the  anxiety  over  money 
matters.  The  happiest  days  of  his  life  were 
spent  at  Came,  and  here  he  followed  with  great 
diligence  his  one  hobby — the  Anglicising  of  the 


118        THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

Latinised  English  words  in  our  vocabulary,  which 
he  called  speech-lore. 

He  wrote  two  books  on  this  subject,  called 
Redecraft  and  Speechcraft.  In  his  preface  to 
Speechcraft  he  announced  it  as  "a  small  trial 
towards  the  upholding  of  our  own  strong  old 
Anglo-Saxon  speech  and  the  ready  teaching  of  it 
to  purely  English  minds  by  their  own  tongue." 
It  was  his  fancy  to  replace  all  foreign  and  derived 
words  with  words  based  on  Saxon  roots.  The 
following  are  selected  from  his  glossary  of  Latin- 
ised words,  with  their  Saxon  equivalents  facing 
them  : — 

Accelerate  .  .  to  on-quicken. 

Accent       .  .  .  word-strain. 

Acoustics .  .  .  sound-lore. 

Aeronaut.  .  .  air-farer. 

Alienate   .  .  .to  un-friend. 

Ancestor  .  .  .  fore-elder. 

Aphorisms  .  .  thought-cullings. 

Botany     .  .  .  wort-lore. 

Democracy  .  .  folkdom. 

Deteriorate  .  .  worsen. 

Equilibrium  .  .  weight-evenness. 

Equivalent  .  .  worth-evenness. 

Foliate     .  .  .to  leafen. 

Initial      .  .  .  word-head. 

Thomas  Hardy's  note  on  the  genius  of  his  dead 
friend  is  a  generous  estimate  :  "  Unlike  Burns, 
Beranger,  and  other  poets  of  the  people,  Barnes 
never  assumed  the  high  conventional  style,  and 


THOMAS  HARDY  &  WILLIAM  BARNES     119 

he  entirely  leaves  alone  ambition,  pride,  despair, 
defiance,  and  other  of  the  grander  passions  which 
move  mankind,  great  and  small.  His  rustics 
are  as  a  rule  happy  people,  and  very  seldom  feel 
the  sting  of  the  rest  of  modern  mankind — the 
disproportion  between  the  desire  for  serenity  and 
the  power  of  obtaining  it.  One  naturally  thinks 
of  Crabbe  in  this  connection,  but  though  they 
touch  at  points,  Crabbe  goes  much  further  than 
Barnes  in  questioning  the  justice  of  circumstance. 
Their  pathos,  after  all,  is  the  attribute  upon 
which  the  poems  must  depend  for  their  endur- 
ance; and  the  incidents  which  embody  it  are 
those  of  everyday  cottage  life,  tinged  throughout 
with  that  '  light  that  never  was,'  which  the 
emotional  art  of  the  lyrist  can  project  upon  the 
commonest  things.  It  is  impossible  to  prophesy, 
but  surely  much  English  literature  will  be  for- 
gotten when  Woak  Hill  is  still  read  for  its  intense 
pathos,  Blackmore  Maidens  for  its  blitheness,  and 
In  the  Spring  for  its  Arcadian  ecstasy." 

In  1896  he  published  a  copy  of  Early  English 
and  the  Saxon  English.  In  this  he  traces  both 
Angles  and  Saxons.  It  was  his  idea  that  the 
ancient  dykes  which  cut  up  so  much  of  our  land 
were  delved  by  them  to  mark  their  settlements 
rather  than  to  use  in  the  case  of  warfare.  He 
also  sturdily  asserted  that  the  Britons  were 


120        THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

accomplished  road-makers  before  the  Romans 
came,  and  that  the  Romans  merely  improved 
roads  already  existing. 

The  poem  of  Woak  Hill  is  based  on  a  Persian 
form  of  metre  called  The  Pearl,  because  the 
rhymes  are  supposed  to  represent  a  series  of  beads 
upon  a  rosary.  The  pearl,  or  sequence  of  asson- 
ance, is  shown  in  the  second  word  in  the  last  line 
of  each  stanza  : 

"  When  sycamore-trees  were  a-spreading 
Green-ruddy  in  hedges 
Beside  the  red  dust  of  the  ridges 
A-dried  at  Woak  Hill, 

I  packed  up  my  goods  all  a- shining 
With  long  years  of  handling 
On  dusty  red  wheels  of  a  waggon 
To  ride  at  Woak  Hill. 

The  brown  thatchen  roof  of  the  dwelling 
I  then  were  a-leaving 
Had  sheltered  the  sleek  head  of  Mary 
My  bride  at  Woak  Hill.    . 

But  now  for  some  years  her  light  footfall 
'S  a-lost  from  the  flooring. 
Too  soon  for  my  joy  and  my  children 
She  died  at  Woak  Hill. 

But  still  I  do  think  that  in  soul 
She  do  hover  about  us 
To  ho'  for  her  motherless  children, 
Her  pride  at  Woak  Hill. 

So  lest  she  should  tell  me  hereafter 
I  stole  off  'ithout  her 


THOMAS  HARDY  &  WILLIAM  BARNES     121 

And  left  her  uncalled  at  house-ridden 
To  bide  at  Woak  Hill, 

I  call'd  her  so  fondly,  with  lippens 
All  soundless  to  others, 
And  took  her  with  air-reaching  hand 
To  my  side  at  Woak  Hill. 

On  the  road  I  did  look  round,  a-talking 
To  light  at  my  shoulder, 
And  then  led  her  in  at  the  doorway, 
Miles  wide  from  Woak  Hill. 

And  that's  why  folk  thought,  for  a  season, 
My  mind  were  a-wand'ring 
With  sorrow,  when  I  were  so  sorely 
A-tried  at  Woak  Hill. 

But  no  :   that  my  Mary  mid  never 
Behold  herself  slighted 
I  wanted  to  think  that  I  guided 
My  guide  from  Woak  Hill." 

Barnes  saw  the  pathos  in  the  joy  of  utter 
physical  weariness  of  a  labourer,  and  one  of  his 
finest  poems  depicts  a  cottage  under  a  swaying 
poplar  : 

"  An'  hands  a- tired  by  day,  were  still, 
Wi'  moonlight  on  the  door." 

He  always  has  that  deep,  quiet  craving  for  the 
hearth,  the  fire,  the  protecting  thatch  of  a  cottage, 
which  gives  his  work  a  pathetic  touch.  I  think 
sometimes  that  Barnes  must  have  been  nearer  to 
being  cold,  homeless  and  tired  at  times  than  is 
generally  understood. 


CHAPTER  VII 

BERE   REGIS  AND  THE   ANCIENT  FAMILY 
OF  TURBERVILLE 

We  who  have  passed  into  the  Upper  Air 
Thence  behold  Earth,  and  know  how  she  is  fair. 
More  than  her  sister  Stars  sweet  Earth  doth  love  us  : 
She  holds  our  hearts  :  the  Stars  are  high  above  us. 
O  Mother  Earth  !    Stars  are  too  far  and  rare  ! 

BERE  REGIS,  that  "  blinking  little  place " 
with  a  history  extending  back  to  Saxon 
times  (identified  by  Doctor  Stukeley  with  the 
Roman  Ibernium),  is  a  typical  little  Dorset  town 
about  seven  miles  to  the  north-west  of  Wareham. 
It  makes  a  capital  walk  or  ride  from  Dorchester, 
and  it  was  this  way  I  travelled.  I  left  Dorchester 
by  High  Street  East,  ascending  Yellowham  Hill, 
the  "  Yalbury  Hill  "  of  Troy's  affecting  meeting 
with  Fanny  Robin,  leaving  Troy  Town  to  pass 
through  Puddletown  and  Tolpuddle.  Evening 
had  fallen  when  I  arrived  at  Bere  Regis,  and  the 
rising  wind  and  flying  wrack  of  clouds  above 
seemed  to  presage  a  wild  night.  I  was  just 
wondering  whether,  although  it  looked  so 
threatening,  I  dared  ride  on  to  Wareham,  when 
my  eyes  rested  on  the  Royal  Oak  Inn,  with  its 
Elizabethan  barns,  mossed  and  mouldering  red 
tiles  and  axe-hewn  timbers. 

122 


BERE  REGIS  123 

"  It  is  at  such  houses,"  I  thought,  "  that  men 
may  stretch  out  weary  legs  and  taste  home-cured 
bacon  (I  heard  the  squeak  of  a  pig  in  the  out- 
house), and  such  places  are  the  homes  of  adven- 
ture. I  will  go  in  and  call  for  ale  and  a  bed." 

So  I  walked  straight  into  the  courtyard,  which 
backs  upon  the  church,  and  found  there  a  large 
man  with  considerable  girth,  a  square,  honest  face 
and  kindly  eyes.  He  was  wearing  a  cap,  and 
wearing  it  in  a  fine  rakish  way  too.  His  appear- 
ance gave  me  the  impression  that  his  wife  had 
tossed  the  cap  at  him  and  failed  to  drop  it  on  his 
head  squarely,  but  had  landed  it  in  a  lopsided 
manner,  and  then  our  friend  had  walked  off  with- 
out thinking  anything  more  about  it.  He  was 
singing  a  song  to  himself  and  staring  at  a  pile 
of  bundles  of  straw.  He  looked  up  and  nodded 
good-humouredly. 

"  Looks  like  rain  !  "  said  I. 

"  Aw  'es,  tu  be  sure,  now  you  come  to  mention 
it.  I  dawnt  think  rain's  far  off." 

"  Can  you  tell  me,"  said  I,  "  if  I  can  get  a  meal 
and  a  bed  at  this  inn  ?  " 

"  What  you  like,"  returned  the  man,  with  a 
quick  tilt  of  his  head,  which  drew  my  eyes  with  a 
kind  of  fascination  to  his  ill-balanced  cap,  "  but 
as  I've  nothing  to  do  with  the  place  I  should  ask 
the  landlord  avore  me." 


124        THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

"  Ah,  to  be  sure,"  said  I.  "  Sorry  to  trouble 
you.  I  thought  you  might  be  the  landlord." 

The  man  stopped  singing  his  song  to  stare  at 
me  wide-eyed. 

"  Well,  I  beant ;  but  it's  a  fine  thing  to  be  a 
landlord,  with  barrels  o'  beer  down  'ouze  and 
money  in  the  bank." 

"  Then  may  I  ask  what  trade  you  follow,"  said 
I,  "  and  why  you  study  that  straw  so  intently  ?  " 

"  Young  fellow,"  said  he,  staring,  "  I  follow  a 
main-zorry  trade  in  these  days.  I  be  a  thatcher, 
and  thatching  to- the- truth- of-music  is  about  done 
for.  If  you  look  at  these  thatched  cottages  about 
Dorset  they  will  tell  their  own  story.  Why,  the 
reed  is  just  thrown  on  the  roof  hugger-mugger. 
They  can't  thatch  no  more  down  this  part,  I  can 
tellee  ;  they  lay  it  on  all  of  a  heap." 

"  And  is  this  the  straw  for  thatching  ?  "  I 
inquired. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  smiling ;  "  they  call  them 
bundles  of  reed  in  Dorset — but  in  my  country, 
which  is  Devon,  they  call  'em  '  nitches  o'  reed.'  ' 

"  Then  you  are  not  contented  with  your 
trade  ?  " 

"  Not  quite,"  answered  the  thatcher,  his  face 
falling.  "  It  has  always  been  my  wish  to  have 
a  little  inn  —and  barrels  o'  beer  down  'ouze  and 
money  ..." 


BERE  REGIS  125 

"  Far  better  be  a  thatcher,"  said  I. 

"  I'll  be  dalled  ef  I  can  see  why." 

"  It's  an  out-of-doors  life  in  the  first  place," 
said  I. 

The  thatcher  nodded,  and  his  cap  looked  about 
as  perilous  as  the  Leaning  Tower  of  Pisa. 

"  It  is  a  happier  life,  too,  I  should  say." 

"  Aw !  I  an't  ayerd  nort  about  that,"  he 
returned. 

"  And  who  ever  heard  of  a  starving  thatcher  ?  " 

"  Young  fellow,"  he  sighed,  "  there  soon  will  be 
no  thatchers  to  starve.  Tez  a  lost  art  is  thatch- 
ing. I  am  the  last  of  my  family  to  follow  the 
trade,  and  we  can  go  back  three  hundred  years." 

"  Then  thatch  is  dying  out  ?  " 

"  Yes,  chiefly  on  the  score  of  it  being  hard  to 
'  dout '  in  case  of  fire." 

"  4  Dout '  is  a  strange  old  word.  It  means 
extinguish,  I  take  it,"  said  I. 

"  To  be  sure — extinguished.  Maybe  you've 
heard  the  story  about  the  Devon  gal  who  went  to 
London  as  a  maid  and  when  she  told  the  mistress 
she  had  l  douted  '  the  kitchen  fire  she  was  told  to 
say  '  extinguished  '  in  future,  and  not  use  such 
ill- sounding  words.  '  Ess,  mum,'  she  said,  '  and 
shall  I  sting-guish  the  old  cat  before  I  go  to 
bed  ?  '  " 

The  thatcher  laughed  in  his  deep  chest. 


126        THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

"  But  thatch  suits  us  Devon  folk  middlin' 
well,"  he  continued.  "  It's  warm  in  winter  and 
cool  in  summer,  and  will  stand  more  buffeting  by 
the  wind  and  rain  than  all  your  cheap  tiles  and 
slates." 

"  And  thatch  is  cheap  too,  perhaps  ?  "  I 
ventured. 

"  On  the  contrary,"  he  answered.  "  Lukee, 
those  nitches  of  reed  cost  four  shillings  each,  and 
you  want  three  hundred  bundles  for  a  good- sized 
roof.  Then  there  is  the  best  tar  twine  (which 
comes  from  Ireland),  the  spars  and  the  labour 
to  be  counted  in.  It  takes  three  weeks  on  the 
average  house,  but  if  the  thatch  is  well  laid  it 
will  last  for  thirty  years,  and  if  I  set  my  heart  on 
a  job  and  finish  it  off  with  a  layer  of  heath  atop, 
well,  then,  it  will  last  for  ever.  Ess,  fay  !  " 

"  And  what  is  the  way  you  proceed  to  thatch 
a  roof?  "  I  asked. 

"  Well,"  he  answered,  "  it's  not  easy  to  explain. 
'  Lanes  '  of  reed — wheat  straw,  you  would  say  — 
are  first  tied  on  the  eave  beams  and  gable  beams ; 
these  are  called  eave  locks  and  gable  locks.  A 
'  lane  of  reed  '  is  about  as  long  as  a  walking-stick 
and  a  bit  thicker  than  a  man's  wrist,  and  a 
thatched  roof  is  composed  of  these  '  lanes  '  tied 
on  the  roof  beams,  in  ridge  fashion.  Then  when 
the  reeds  are  all  tied  on,  overlapping  each  other, 


126 


BERE  REGIS  127 

they  are  trimmed  with  a  '  paring  hook.'  The 
reed  has  to  be  wet  when  put  up  ;  that  is  why 
thatchers  wear  leather  knee-knaps.  The  best 
thatching  reed  comes  from  clay  soil  out  Exeter 
and  Crediton  way." 

"  And  where  do  you  think,"  I  asked,  "  can  be 
seen  the  most  perfect  examples  of  thatching  in 
England  ?  " 

"  I  lay  you  won't  see  any  better  than  the 
cottages  around  Lyme  Regis  and  Axminster. 
But  soon  Merry  England  will  be  done  with  thatch, 
for  the  boys  of  the  village  are  too  proud  to  learn 
how  to  cut  a  spar  or  use  a  thatcher's  hook.  Bless 
my  soul !  They  all  want  to  be  clerks  or  school 
teachers." 

My  friend  the  thatcher  had  a  profound  con- 
tempt for  "  school  laming  "  and  he  waxed  tri- 
umphantly eloquent  when  he  touched  upon 
Council  School  teachers. 

"  What  poor,  mimpsy-pimsy  craychers  they 
be,  them  teachers,"  he  remarked.  "  Fancy  them 
trying  to  larn  others,  and  ha'n't  got  the  brains  to 
larn  themselves !  " 

Bere  Regis  church  is  the  most  beautiful  little 
building  of  its  size  in  Dorset.  It  is  the  captain 
and  chief  of  all  the  village  churches,  and  has  just 
managed  to  touch  perfection  in  all  the  things 


128        THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

that  a  wayside  shrine  should  achieve.  There  is 
an  atmosphere  about  the  old  place  that  is  sooth- 
ing and  above  the  pleasure  of  physical  experience. 
The  qualities  of  Bere  Regis  can  only  be  fully  ap- 
preciated with  that  sixth  sense  that  transcends 
gross  sight  and  touch.  Upon  entering  the  build- 
ing one  is  captivated  by  the  remarkable  roof  and 
the  number  of  effigies,  half  life-size,  in  the  dress 
of  the  period,  which  are  carved  on  the  hammer- 
beams.  This  magnificent  carved  and  painted 
timber  roof  is  said  to  have  been  the  gift  of  Cardinal 
Morton,  born  at  Milborne  Stileman,  in  this  parish. 
The  roof  effigies  are  supposed  to  represent  the 
Twelve  Apostles,  but  they  are  not  easily  identified. 
The  canopied  Skerne  tomb  possesses  a  special 
interest  for  its  brasses  and  verse  : 

"  I  Skerne  doe  show  that  all  our  earthlie  trust 
All  earthlie  favours  and  goods  and  sweets  are  dust 
Look  on  the  worlds  inside  and  look  on  me 
Her  outside  is  but  painted  vanity." 

In  the  south  porch  will  be  found  an  interesting 
relic  in  the  shape  of  some  old  iron  grappling-hooks 
used  for  pulling  the  thatch  off  a  cottage  in  the 
event  of  fire.  An  ancient  altar-slab  on  which, 
perchance,  sacrifices  have  been  offered  has  been 
preserved,  and  there  is  also  a  fine  old  priest's 
chair,  the  upper  arms  of  which  have  supported 
the  leaning  bodies  of  a  great  company  of  Dorset 


BERE  REGIS  129 

vicars,  for  it  must  be  remembered  that  the  priest 
was  not  allowed  to  sit  on  the  chair— but  "  lean- 
ing "  was  permitted.  The  Norman  pillars  in  the 
south  arcade  are  striking  to  the  eye,  and  the 
humorous  carvings  on  their  capitals  are  objects 
of  great  interest.  One  of  them  gives  a  very  good 
picture  of  a  victim  in  the  throes  of  toothache ; 
apparently  the  sufferer  has  just  arrived  at  that 
stage  in  which  the  pain  is  mounting  to  a  cres- 
cendo of  agony,  for  he  has  inserted  his  eight  fingers 
in  his  mouth  in  an  attempt  to  battle  with  his 
tormentors.  The  other  figure  displays  some  poor 
fellow  who  is  a  martyr  to  headache— perhaps  a 
gentle  reproof  and  warning  to  those  who  were  in- 
clined to  tarry  overlong  in  the  taverns.  But  the 
main  object  of  interest  is  the  Turberville  window 
in  the  south  aisle,  beneath  which  is  the  ledger- 
stone  covering  the  last  resting-place  of  this 
wild,  land- snatching  family,  which  is  lettered  as 
follows  : — 

"  Ostium  sepulchri  antiquae  Famillae  Turberville 
24  Junij  1710." 

("The  door  of  the  sepulchre  of  the  ancient 
family  of  the  Turbervilles. ") 

It  was  at  this  vault  stone  that  Tess  bent  down 
and  said  : 

"  Why  am  I  on  the  wrong  side  of  this  door  !  " 

Perhaps  it  is  as  well  to  recite  the  outline  of 


130         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

Hardy's  story  of  Tess  at  this  stage  of  our  pilgrim- 
age. Tess  Durbeyfield,  the  daughter  of  poor  and 
feeble-minded  parents  and  descendant  of  a  noble 
but  somewhat  wild  old  family,  was  forcibly 
seduced  by  a  wealthy  young  loafer  whose  father 
had  taken,  with  no  right  to  it,  Tess's  proper  name 
of  "  D'Urberville."  A  child  was  born,  but  died. 
Some  years  after  Tess  became  betrothed  to  a 
clergyman's  son,  Angel  Clare.  On  their  wedding 
night  Tess  confessed  to  him  her  past  relations 
with  Alec  D'Urberville,  and  thereupon  Clare,  a 
man  who  was  not  without  sin  himself,  left  her. 
In  the  end  Fate  conspired  to  force  Tess  back  into 
the  protection  of  Alec.  Clare,  who  cannot  be 
looked  upon  as  anything  but  half-baked  and  in- 
sincere, returns  repentant  from  Canada  and  finds 
her  living  with  D'Urberville.  In  order  to  be  free 
to  return  to  Clare,  Tess  stabbed  Alec  to  the  heart, 
for  which  she  was  arrested,  tried  and  hanged. 

In  this  romance  Bere  Regis  figures  as  "  Kings- 
bere,"  and  the  church  is  the  subject  of  many 
references.  It  was  on  one  of  the  "  canopied, 
altar-shaped  "  Turberville  tombs  that  poor  Tess 
noticed,  with  a  sudden  qualm  of  blank  fear,  that 
the  effigy  moved.  "  As  soon  as  she  drew  close 
to  it  she  discovered  all  in  a  moment  that  the 
figure  was  a  living  person ;  and  the  shock  to  her 
sense  of  not  having  been  alone  was  so  violent 


*  BERE  REGIS  131 

that  she  almost  fainted,  not,  however,  till  she  had 
recognised  Alec  D'Urberville  in  the  form." 

Here  Alec  D'Urberville  stamped  with  his  heel 
heavily  above  the  stones  of  the  ancient  family 
vault,  whereupon  there  arose  a  hollow  echo  from 
below,  and  remarked  airily  to  Tess :  "  A  family 
gathering  is  it  not,  with  these  old  fellows  under 
us  here  ?  " 

In  the  south  wall  a  doorway  which  has  been 
long  filled  in  can  still  be  traced.  There  is  nothing 
of  special  note  in  this  alteration,  but  a  legend  has 
been  handed  down  which  is  worth  recording  here. 
It  is  said  that  one  of  the  Turberville  family 
quarrelled  with  the  vicar  of  Bere  Regis  and  ended 
a  stormy  meeting  by  declaring  that  he  would 
never  again  pass  through  the  old  door  of  the 
church.  As  time  went  on  the  lure  of  the  Turber- 
ville dead  in  the  ancient  shrine  obsessed  him  and 
he  grew  to  regret  the  haste  in  which  he  had  cut 
himself  off  from  the  ancient  possessors  of  his  land. 
After  some  years  Fate  arranged  a  chance  meeting 
between  the  vicar  and  Turberville  at  a  village 
feast,  and  under  the  influence  of  the  general  good- 
fellowship  and  merry-making  they  buried  the 
hatchet  and  fell  to  discussing  old  times  and 
friends.  When  time  came  for  the  breaking  up 
of  the  entertainment  it  was  only  Turberville's 
dogged  determination  to  keep  his  vow  which 


132         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

prevented  a  return  to  the  old  happy  conditions 
before  the  breach  of  friendship. 

"There  is  one  thing  I  would  ask  you  to  do, 
Vicar,"  said  Turberville  as  he  parted.  "  When 
you  attend  vespers  to-morrow  just  tell  the  old 
Turberville  squires  to  sleep  soundly  in  their  vault. 
Although  I  have  vowed  never  to  pass  through  the 
church  door  while  I  am  alive,  I  cannot  stop  'em 
carrying  me  through  when  I  am  dead — so  1  shall 
sleep  with  them  in  the  end." 

However,  the  worthy  vicar  went  to  the  town 
stone-mason  next  morning  and  arranged  to  cut  a 
new  doorway  in  the  south  wall,  and  thus  it  came 
to  pass  that  the  independent  and  stubborn 
Turberville  once  again  was  able  to  worship  with 
the  shades  of  his  fathers  and  yet  keep  to  his 
promise  never  to  pass  through  the  old  door 
again. 

The  first  of  the  family  of  Turberville  was  Sir 
Payne  de  Turberville  (de  Turba  Villa),  who  came 
over  with  William  the  Norman.  From  Sir  Payne 
down  to  the  last  descendants  of  the  family  who 
form  the  theme  of  Thomas  Hardy's  romance, 
Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilks,  the  Turbervilles  were  a 
strange,  wild  company.  It  is  excusable,  too,  in 
a  way,  for  it  appears  that  the  first  of  the  line,  after 
the  battle  of  Hastings,  was  one  of  the  twelve 
knights  who  helped  Robert  FitzHamon,  Lord  of 


BERE  REGIS  138 

Estremaville,  in  his  evil  work  and  returned  to 
England  when  his  commander  was  created  Earl 
of  Gloucester.  In  an  ancient  document  of  the 
time  of  Henry  III.  we  come  across  a  striking 
illustration  of  the  unscrupulous  ways  of  this 
family,  for  it  is  recorded  that  John  de  Turberville 
was  then  paying  an  annual  fine  on  some  land  near 
Bere  Regis,  which  his  people  before  him  had 
filched  from  the  estate  of  the  Earl  of  Hereford. 
The  Turbervilles  were  established  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood in  1297.  Bryants  Puddle,  a  very  rude 
little  hamlet  situated  on  the  River  Piddle  a  little 
to  the  south-west  of  Bere,  receives  its  title  from 
Brian  de  Turberville,  who  was  lord  of  the  manor 
in  the  reign  of  Edward  III.  The  village  was 
anciently  called  "Piddle  Turberville,"  but  this 
name  has  been  replaced  by  Bryants  Puddle. 

At  a  later  period  the  Turbervilles  came  into 
the  possession  of  the  manor  of  Bere  Regis  at  the 
breaking  up  of  Tarent  Abbey,  and  at  this  time 
the  good  fortune  of  the  family  was  at  its  zenith. 
But  with  the  spoils  of  the  church  came  a  gradual 
and  general  downfall  of  the  old  family,  and  with 
the  increased  riches,  we  may  conjecture,  the 
Turbervilles  went  roaring  on  their  way  more 
riotously  than  ever.  There  is  an  entry  in  the 
parish  registers  of  Bere,  under  the  year  1710,  of 
the  interment  of  Thomas  Turberville,  the  last  of 


134         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

the  ancient  race.  An  intermediate  stage  of  the 
house  is  represented  by  D'Albigny  Turberville, 
the  oculist  mentioned  by  Pepys,  who  died  in  1696 
and  was  buried  in  Salisbury  Cathedral.  After 
the  year  1710  the  old  manor-house  of  the  Turber- 
villes,  standing  near  the  church,  was  strangely 
silent.  Their  time  was  over  and  gone,  the  wine 
had  been  drunk,  the  singers  had  departed.  But 
the  stories  of  their  carousals  and  great  deeds  were 
still  a  matter  for  dispute  and  discussion  at  the 
village  inn,  and  the  eerie  old  house  was  especially 
regarded  with  feelings  of  awe  and  few  cared  to 
go  near  it  after  dark.  It  was  not  what  they  had 
seen,  but  what  they  might  see,  that  caused  them 
to  shun  the  old  place.  I  can  picture  the  Dorset 
rustic  of  that  time  (and  the  distance  between 
Hodge  the  "  Goodman  "  of  1710  and  Hodge  the 
driver  of  the  motor  tractor  is  almost  nothing  at 
all)  shaking  his  head  on  being  asked  his  reasons 
for  avoiding  the  house,  and  saying,  with  a  grin, 
as  how  he  "  shouldn't  like  to  go  poking  about 
such  a  divered  [dead]  old  hole." 

The  ancient  manor-house  was  allowed  to  lapse 
into  ruin,  and  now  nothing  at  all  remains  but  a 
few  crumbling  stones : 

"Through  broken  walls  and  grey 

The  winds  blow  bleak  and  shrill ; 
They  are  all  gone  away. 


BERE  REGIS  135 

Nor  is  there  one  to-day 

To  speak  them  good  or  ill ; 
There  is  nothing  more  to  say." 

There  is  reason  to  believe  that  the  rustics  in 
Wilts  and  Dorset  who  bear  different  forms  of 
the  name  Turberville,  altered  into  Tellafield  and 
Troublefield,  are  in  truth  the  descendants  of 
illegitimate  branches  of  the  family.  One  ancient 
Dorset  rustic  with  the  name  of  Tollafield,  who 
aroused  my  interest,  said  to  me  in  all  seriousness 
that  he  would  not  care  to  go  rummaging  into  the 
history  of  the  old  Turberville  people.  "  You 
depend  upon  it,  they  were  a  bad  lot — the  parson 
told  me  so.  There  is  no  telling  what  them  folks' 
speerits  might  not  be  up  to,  if  so  be  the  old  devil 
had  got  ahold  on  'em."  This  rustic,  though  an 
old  man,  had  an  eye  as  keen  as  a  hawk's,  was  a 
man  of  immensely  powerful  frame,  and  would 
sleep  under  a  hedge  any  night  and  feel  little  the 
worse  for  it.  When  I  looked  at  his  clear,  hard 
blue  eyes  and  straight,  haughty  nose  he  gave  me 
the  feeling  that  the  Turberville  blood  had  really 
survived  in  him.  Then  I  learned  that  he  was  a 
flagrant  poacher  and,  like  the  old  earth-stopper 
in  Masefield's  poem, 

"  His  snares  made  many  a  rabbit  die. 
On  moony  nights  he  found  it  pleasant 
To  stare  the  wroods  for  roosting  pheasants 
Up  near  the  tree- trunk  on  the  bough. 


136         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

He  never  trod  behind  a  plough. 
He  and  his  two  sons  got  their  food 
From  wild  things  in  the  field  and  wood." 

It  was  my  fortune  to  run  into  the  old  fellow 
coming  out  of  the  Royal  Oak  one  night  with 
his  friends.  He  was  very  exuberant  and  arro- 
gant. I  heard  him  offering  to  fight  three  men, 
"  knock  one  down,  t'other  come  on "  style. 
Then  it  came  over  me  with  a  sudden  sense  of 
largeness  and  quietude  that  the  game  old  ruffian 
had  his  place  in  the  order  of  things.  This  tyrant 
of  the  low  Tudor  tap-room  was  perhaps  a  Turber- 
ville,  one  of  the  rightful,  immemorial  owners  of 
the  land.  If  he  has  not  the  right  to  a  pheasant 
for  his  Sunday  dinner,  then  tell  me  who  has. 
Perhaps  when  we,  with  our  picture  palaces  and 
styles  and  jazzy-dances,  have  passed  away  our 
hoary  friend  the  poacher  will  abide,  his  feet 
among  his  clods,  rooted  deep  in  his  native  soil. 
And  if  all  this  thin  veneer  of  civilisation  was 
suddenly  ripped  away  from  us,  how  should  we 
emerge  ?  Hodge  would  still  go  on  poaching, 
sleeping  under  hedges,  outwitting  the  wild  things 
in  the  woods  and  drinking  home-brewed  ale.  He 
would  not  even  feel  any  temporary  inconvenience. 
How  old-fashioned  and  out-of-date  we  with  all  our 
new  things  would  feel  if  we  were  suddenly  brought 
into  line  with  the  eternally  efficient  Hodge ! 


Woolbridge    House 


BERE  REGIS  139 

From  Bere  Regis  to  Wool  is  a  pleasant  ride  of 
five  or  six  miles.  Close  to  Wool  station  is  the 
manor-house,  now  a  farm,  which  was  once  the 
residence  of  a  younger  branch  of  the  Turberville 
family,  and  readers  will  remember  it  is  the  place 
where  Tess  and  Angel  Clare  came  to  spend  their 
gloomy  and  tragic  honeymoon.  In  Hardy's  Tess 
the  house  is  called  Wellbridge  Manor  House,  in 
remembrance  of  the  days  when  Wool  was  called 
Welle,  on  account  of  the  springs  which  are  so 
plentiful  in  this  district.  Of  course  the  house  is 
named  from  the  five-arched  Elizabethan  bridge 
which  spans  the  reed-fringed  River  Frome  at 
this  point.  Each  arch  of  the  bridge  is  divided 
by  triangular  buttresses,  which  at  the  road-level 
form  recesses  where  foot-passengers  may  take 
refuge  from  passing  motors  or  carts.  The  manor- 
house  is  of  about  the  time  of  Henry  VIII.,  and  has 
been  much  renovated.  Over  the  doorway  a  date 
stone  proclaims  that  the  building  was  raised  in 
1635  (or  1655),  but  it  has  been  suggested  that  this 
is  the  date  of  a  restoration  or  addition  to  the 
building.  The  two  pictures  of  Tess's  ancestors 
mentioned  in  the  novel  actually  exist,  and  are  to 
be  seen  on  the  wall  of  the  staircase  :  "  two  life- 
sized  portraits  on  panels  built  into  the  wall.  As 
all  visitors  are  aware,  these  paintings  represent 
women  of  middle  age,  of  a  date  some  two  hundred 


140         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

years  ago,  whose  lineaments  once  seen  can  never 
be  forgotten.  The  long  pointed  features,  narrow 
eye,  and  smirk  of  the  one,  so  suggestive  of  merci- 
less treachery ;  the  bill-hook  nose,  large  teeth, 
and  bold  eye  of  the  other,  suggesting  arrogance 
to  the  point  of  ferocity,  haunt  the  beholder 
afterwards  in  his  dreams." 

Old  records  show  that  in  ancient  times  a  curious 
custom  was  observed  on  Annual  Court  Day  at 
Wool.  It  was  known  as  collecting  smoke-pence. 
It  appears  that  the  head  of  every  house  was 
called  upon  to  pay  a  penny  for  each  of  his 
chimneys  as  a  token  that  the  property  belonged 
to  the  manor.  The  money  was  collected  by  the 
constable,  who  was  obliged  to  bring  twenty  pence 
into  court,  or  make  up  the  money  himself. 

The  most  characteristic  and  altogether  unique 
feature  of  this  nook  of  earth  around  Bere  Regis 
is  that  superstition  has  not  ceased  to  exist  among 
the  old  people  of  the  land.  It  is  difficult  to  be- 
lieve that  there  is  a  little  district  in  England 
where  superstition  is  still  a  part — a  very  obscure 
part,  it  is  true — of  the  life  of  the  people.  But 
here  I  have  noticed  the  shadow  of  witchcraft  and 
magic  thrown  across  the  commonplace  things  of 
rustic  life  again  and  again  while  talking  with  old 
cronies  over  their  beer,  or  along  the  winding  hill 
roads.  But  it  must  be  understood  that  the  Dorset 


BERE  REGIS  141 

man  does  not  talk  to  any  chance  wayfarer  on  such 
matters :  the  subject  of  the  "  Borderland  "  and 
"  spiritual  creatures  "  is  strictly  set  apart  for  the 
log  fire  and  chimney  corner  on  winter  evenings. 
It  is  when  the  wooden  shutters  are  up  to  the 
windows,  and  the  tranquillising  clay  pipes  are  send- 
ing up  their  incense  to  the  oak  cross-beams,  that 
we  may  cautiously  turn  the  conversation  on  to 
such  matters.  On  one  such  occasion  as  I  watched 
the  keen,  wrinkled  faces,  on  which  common  sense, 
shrewdness  and  long  experience  had  set  their 
marks,  I  wondered  if  two  local  farmers  had  made 
such  sinners  of  their  memories  as  to  credit  their 
own  fancy.  But  no,  I  would  not  believe  they 
were  in  earnest.  It  was  only  their  quaint  humour 
asserting  itself.  They  were  surely  "  piling  it  on  " 
in  order  to  deceive  me !  However,  that  was  not 
the  solution,  for  when  the  time  came,  somewhere 
about  midnight,  for  one  of  the  farmers  to  return 
home  he  stolidly  refused  to  face  the  dark  track- 
way back  to  his  farm,  and  preferred  to  spend  the 
night  in  the  arm-chair  before  the  fire.  But  let 
one  of  the  dwellers  on  Bere  Heath  tell  of  his  own 
superstitions.  Here  is  old  Cover  coming  over 
the  great  Elizabethan  bridge  which  spans  the 
rushy  River  Frome  at  Wool.  One  glance  at  his 
cheerful,  weather-beaten  face  will  tell  you  better 
than  a  whole  chapter  of  a  book  that  he  is  no 


142         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

"  lablolly  "  (fool),  but  a  man  of  sound  judgment, 
easy  notions  and  general  good  character,  like 
Hardy's  Gabriel  Oak.  Leaning  on  the  ancient 
stonework  of  the  bridge,  and  smacking  his 
vamplets  (rough  gaiters  used  by  thatchers  to 
defend  the  legs  from  wet)  with  a  hazel  stick,  he 
stops  to  talk.  A  motor  lorry  filled  with  churns 
of  milk  passes  on  its  way  to  drop  its  consignment 
at  Wool  railway  siding. 

"  Tellee  what  'tis,"  said  Cover  to  me,  pointing 
to  the  lorry :  "  'twill  be  a  poor-come-a-long-o'-'t 
now  them  motors  are  taking  the  place  o'  horses 
everywhere.  Can't  get  no  manure  from  them 
things,  and  the  land  is  no  good  without  manure. 
Mr  Davis  the  farmer  at  Five  Mile  Bottom  hev 
got  five  Ford  cars  now  where  ten  horses  used  to 
feed.  He  sez  to  me  that  he  don't  want  any  horse 
manure — chemical  manures  is  good  enough  for 
him.  But  he  dunnow  nort  't-all-'bout-et !  He'll 
eat  the  heart  out  of  his  soil  with  his  chemicals, 
and  his  farm  will  be  barren  in  a  year  or  so.  Ess, 
by  Gor !  You  bant  agwain  to  do  justice  to  the 
soil  without  real  manure,  and  them  as  thinks  they 
can  dawnt  know  A  from  a  'oss's  'ead." 

Then  I  asked  Gover  about  the  Turberville  ghost 
which  we  are  told  haunts  this  lane,  and  which  is 
the  subject  of  an  allusion  in  Hardy's  Tess  of  the 
D'Urbervilks.  His  keen  old  face  became  serious 


BERE  REGIS  143 

at  once.  No  ghosts  or  goblins  had  troubled  him, 
he  said,  but  John  Rawles  and  another  chap  saw  as 
plain  as  could  be  a  funeral  going  along  from  Wool- 
bridge  House  to  Bere  Regis,  and  they  heard  the 
priest  singing  in  front  of  the  coffin,  but  they  could 
not  understand  what  he  did  say.  There  was  a 
cattle  gate  across  the  road  in  those  days  and 
Rawles  ran  to  open  it,  but  before  he  could  get 
there  the  coffin  had  passed  through  the  gate  and 
it  had  all  vanished !  He  had  often  heard  tell  of 
people  who  had  seen  ghosts,  and  he  would  not  be 
put  about  if  he  did  see  one  himself. 

"  So  you  have  not  seen  the  blood-stained  family 
coach  of  the  Turbervilles  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  No,  I  never  see  that,"  said  Cover,  shaking 
his  head,  "  nor  never  heard  of  it." 

"  Then,  as  it  is  a  tale  that  every  child  should 
know,"  I  said,  "  I  will  tell  you  now,  and  you  shall 
believe  it  or  no,  precisely  as  you  choose.  Once 
upon  a  time  there  was  a  Turberville  who  deserves 
to  be  remembered  and  to  be  called,  so  to  speak, 
the  limb  of  the  '  old  'un '  himself,  for  he  spent  all 
his  days  in  wickedness,  and  went  roaring  to  the 
devil  as  fast  as  all  his  vices  could  send  him.  I 
have  heard  it  said  that  he  snapped  his  fingers  in  the 
face  of  a  good  parson  who  came  to  see  him  on  his 
death-bed,  saying  he  did  not  wish  to  talk  balder- 
dash, or  to  hear  it,  and  bade  him  clear  out  and  send 


144         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

up  his  servant  with  fighting-cocks  and  a  bottle 
of  brandy.  Gradually  all  the  drinking  and  vice, 
which  had  besieged  his  soul  for  so  long,  swept  him 
into  a  state  of  temporary  madness  and  he  murdered 
a  friend  while  they  were  riding  to  Woolbridge 
House  in  the  family  coach.  The  friend  he  struck 
down  had  Turberville  blood  in  his  veins  too,  so 
you  may  be  certain  the  blame  was  not  all  on  one 
side.  Ever  since  the  evil  night  the  coach  with 
the  demon  horses  dragging  it  sways  and  rocks 
along  the  road  between  Wool  and  Bere,  and  the 
murderer  rushes  after  it,  moaning  and  wringing 
his  hands,  but  never  having  the  fortune  to  catch 
it  up.  The  spectacle  of  the  haunted  coach  can- 
not be  seen  by  the  ordinary  wayfarer ;  it  is  only 
to  be  seen  by  persons  in  which  the  blood  of  the 
Turbervilles  is  mixed." 

"  Ah  !  "  nodded  old  Cover,  "  I  don't  hold  with 
that  story.  If  so  be  as  that  'ere  Turberville  who 
murdered  t'other  hev  a-gone  up  above,  'tain't 
likely  as  how  he'll  be  wishful  to  go  rowstering 
after  that  ripping  great  coach  on  a  dalled  bad  road 
like  this."  And  then  he  shook  his  bony  finger  in 
my  face  and  added :  "  And  if  the  dowl  have  a-got 
hold  on  'im  he  won't  be  able  to  go  gallyvanting 
about— he'll  be  kept  there  !  " 

Wool  has  another  attraction  in  the  ruins  of 
Bindon  Abbey,  lying  in  the  thick  wood  seen  from 


BERE  REGIS  145 

the  station,  a  few  minutes  to  the  south  of  the  line 
towards  Wareham.  The  ruins  are  very  scanty. 
A  few  slabs  and  coffins  are  still  preserved,  and 
one  stone  bears  the  inscription  in  Lombardic 
characters  : 

ABBAS  RICARDUS  DE  MANER8  HIC  TUMULATUR 

APPOENAS  TARDUS  DEUS  HUNG  SALVANS 

TUEATUR 

The  Abbey  is  in  a  wood  by  the  river — a  gloomy, 
fearsome,  dark  place.  This  is  the  Wellbridge 
Abbey  of  Hardy's  Tess,  and  we  read  that "  against 
the  north  wall  of  the  ruined  choir  was  the  empty 
stone  coffin  of  an  abbot,  in  which  every  tourist 
with  a  turn  for  grim  humour  was  accustomed  to 
stretch  himself."  This  is,  of  course,  the  lidless 
coffin  in  which  Angel  Clare,  walking  in  his  sleep, 
laid  Tess.  Woolbridge  House  is  not  so  near  to 
this  spot  as  Thomas  Hardy  gives  one  to  under- 
stand in  the  novel.  Near  the  ruin  is  the  old  mill 
of  Bindon  Abbey,  situated  on  the  Frome,  where 
Angel  Clare  proposed  to  learn  milling.  It  is 
called  "  Wellbridge  Mill  "  in  Tess. 

The  old  Abbey  wood  is  full  of  shadows  and  is 
the  kind  of  place  that  one  would  write  down 
as  immemorially  old,  barren  and  sinister.  The 
singular  impressiveness  of  its  ivy-grown  walls, 
shadowed  by  heavy  masses  of  foliage,  depresses 


146         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

one  dreadfully.  The  straight  footpaths  beneath 
the  trees  have  been  worn  into  deep  tracks  by  the 
attrition  of  feet  for  many  centuries.  Under  the 
trees  are  the  fish-ponds  which  played  such  an 
important  part  in  provisioning  the  monks'  larder. 
They  are  so  concealed  from  the  daylight  that  they 
take  on  a  shining  jet-black  surface.  A  book 
might  be  written  about  the  place— a  book  of 
terrible  and  fateful  ghost  tales. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ROUND  AND  ABOUT  WEYMOUTH 

I  walk  in  the  world's  great  highways, 

In  the  dusty  glare  and  riot, 
But  my  heart  is  in  the  byways 

That  thread  across  the  quiet ; 
By  the  wild  flowers  in  the  coppice, 

There  the  track  like  a  sleep  goes  past, 
And  paven  with  peace  and  poppies, 

Comes  down  to  the  sea  at  last. 

E.   G.    BUCKEKIDOB. 

MODERN  Weymouth  is  made  up  of  two 
distinct  townships,  Weymouth  and  Mel- 
combe  Regis,  which  were  formerly  separate 
boroughs,  with  their  own  parliamentary  repre- 
sentatives. Of  the  two  Weymouth  is  probably 
the  older,  but  Melcombe  can  be  traced  well-nigh 
back  to  the  Conquest ;  and  now,  although  it  is 
the  name  of  Weymouth  that  has  obtained  the 
prominence,  it  is  to  Melcombe  that  it  is  commonly 
applied.  Many  visitors  to  Weymouth  never  really 
enter  the  real,  ancient  Weymouth,  now  chiefly 
concerned  in  the  brewing  of  Dorset  ale.  The 
pier,  town,  railway  station  and  residences  are  all 
in  Melcombe  Regis.  The  local  conditions  are 
something  more  than  peculiar.  The  little  River 
Wey  has  an  estuary  altogether  out  of  proportion 
147 


148         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

to  its  tiny  stream,  called  the  Blackwater.  The 
true  original  Weymouth  stands  on  the  right  bank 
of  the  estuary  at  its  entrance  into  Weymouth 
Bay.  Across  the  mouth  of  the  estuary,  leaving 
a  narrow  channel  only  open,  stretches  a  narrow 
spit  of  land,  on  which  stands  Melcombe.  The 
Blackwater  has  thus  a  lake-like  character,  and 
its  continuation  to  the  sea,  the  harbour,  may 
be  likened  to  a  canal.  The  local  annals  of  the 
kingdom  can  hardly  furnish  such  another  instance 
of  jealous  rivalry  as  the  strife  between  the  two 
boroughs.  Barely  a  stone's-throw  apart,  they 
were  the  most  quarrelsome  of  neighbours,  and 
for  centuries  lived  the  most  persistent  "  cat  and 
dog  "  life.  Whatever  was  advanced  by  one  com- 
munity was  certain  to  be  opposed  by  the  other, 
and  not  even  German  and  English  hated  each 
other  with  a  more  perfect  hatred  than  did  the 
burgesses  of  Weymouth  and  Melcombe  Regis. 
As  they  would  not  live  happy  single,  it  was 
resolved  to  try  what  married  life  would  do,  and 
so  in  1571  the  two  corporations  were  rolled  into 
one,  the  only  vestige  of  the  old  days  retained  being 
the  power  of  electing  four  members  to  Parliament 
from  the  joint  municipality— a  right  which  was 
exercised  until  1832.  Not  until  the  union  was 
the  old-fashioned  ferry  over  the  Wey  supple- 
mented by  a  bridge,  the  predecessor  of  that  which 


ROUND  AND  ABOUT  WEYMOUTH  149 

now  j  oins  the  two  divisions  of  the  dual  town.  The 
union  proved  to  be  a  success,  and  in  this  way 
Weymouth  saved  both  itself  and  its  name  from 
becoming  merely  a  shadow  and  a  memory. 

It  is  to  George  III.  that  Weymouth  must  be 
eternally  grateful,  for  just  in  the  same  way  as 
George  IV.  turned  Brighthelmstone  into  Brighton, 
it  was  George  III.  who  made  Weymouth.  Of 
course  there  was  a  Weymouth  long  before  his 
day,  but  whatever  importance  it  once  possessed 
had  long  disappeared  when  he  took  it  up.  For 
many  years  the  King  spent  long  summer  holidays 
at  Gloucester  Lodge,  a  mansion  facing  the  sea, 
and  now  the  sedate  Gloucester  Hotel. 

Considering  its  undoubted  age,  Weymouth  is 
remarkably  barren  in  traces  of  the  past,  and 
a  few  Elizabethan  houses,  for  the  most  part 
modernised,  well-nigh  exhaust  its  antiquities. 

Weymouth,  which  figures  as  "  Budmouth  "  in 
Hardy's  romances,  is  the  subject  of  many  refer- 
ences. Uncle  Bengy,  in  The  Trumpet  Major, 
found  Budmouth  a  plaguy  expensive  place,  for 
"  If  you  only  eat  one  egg,  or  even  a  poor  windfall 
of  an  apple,  you've  got  to  pay  ;  and  a  bunch  of 
radishes  is  a  halfpenny,  and  a  quart  o'  cider 
tuppence  three-farthings  at  lowest  reckoning. 
Nothing  without  paying  !  " 

When  George  III.  and  the  sun  of  prosperity 


150         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

shone  upon  the  tradesfolk  of  Weymouth  the  spirit 
of  pecuniary  gain  soon  became  rampant.  The 
inflated  prices  which  so  roused  poor  old  Uncle 
Bengy  even  staggered  Queen  Charlotte,  and 
"  Peter  Pindar  "  (Dr  John  Wolcot)  criticised  her 
household  thriftiness  in  bringing  stores  and  pro- 
visions from  Windsor  : 

"  Bread,  cheese,  salt,  catchup,  vinegar  and  mustard, 
Small  beer  and  bacon,  apple  pie  and  custard  ; 
All,  all  from  Windsor,  greets  his  frugal  Grace, 
For  Weymouth  is  a  d d  expensive  place." 

Sandsfoot  Castle,  built  by  Henry  VIII.,  on  the 
southern  shore  of  the  spit  of  land  called  the  Nothe, 
Weymouth  Bay,  is  now  a  mere  pile  of  corroded 
stone.  It  was  built  as  a  fort  when  England 
feared  an  invasion  prompted  by  the  Pope.  The 
old  pile  plays  a  prominent  part  in  Hardy's  The 
Well-Beloved.  The  statue  of  King  George,  which 
is  such  an  object  of  ridicule  to  the  writers  of 
guide-books,  was  the  meeting-place  of  Fancy 
Day  and  Dick  Dewy  in  Under  the  Greenwood  Tree. 

The  "  Budmouth  "  localities  mentioned  in  The 
Trumpet  Major  are  :  the  Quay  ;  Theatre  Royal  ; 
Barracks ;  Gloucester  Lodge ;  and  the  Old  Rooms 
Inn  in  Love  Row,  once  a  highly  fashionable  resort 
which  was  used  for  dances  and  other  entertain- 
ments by  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  formed 
the  Court  of  George  III.  It  was  also  the  spot 


ROUND  AND  ABOUT  WEYMOUTH  151 

where  the  battle  of  Trafalgar  was  discussed  in 
The  Dynasts.  However,  the  old  assembly  rooms 
and  the  theatre  have  now  vanished.  Mention  of 
Hardy's  tremendous  drama  reminds  me  that  it  is 
rarely  quoted  in  topographical  works  on  Dorset, 
and  yet  it  is  full  of  the  spirit  and  atmosphere  of 
Wessex.  Thus  in  a  few  words  he  tells  us  what 
"  Boney  "  seemed  like  to  the  rustics  of  Dorset : 

"  WOMAN  (in  undertones).  I  can  tell  you  a  word 
or  two  on't.  It  is  about  His  victuals.  They  say 
that  He  lives  upon  human  flesh,  and  has  rashers 
o'  baby  every  morning  for  breakfast —for  all  the 
world  like  the  Cernel  Giant  in  old  ancient  times ! 

"SECOND  OLD  MAN.  I  only  believe  half.  And 
I  only  own — such  is  my  challengeful  character- 
that  perhaps  He  do  eat  pagan  infants  when  He's 
in  the  desert.  But  not  Christian  ones  at  home. 
Oh  no — 'tis  too  much  ! 

"WOMAN.  Whether  or  no,  I  sometimes— God 
forgi'e  me!— laugh  wi'  horror  at  the  queerness 
o't,  till  I  am  that  weak  I  can  hardly  go  round 
house.  He  should  have  the  washing  of  'em  a  few 
times ;  I  warrent  'a  wouldn't  want  to  eat  babies 
any  more !  " 

There  are  a  hundred  clean-cut,  bright  things 
in  The  Dynasts,  and  some  of  the  songs  are  so 
cunningly  fashioned  that  we  know  the  author 
must  surely  have  overheard  them  so  often  that 


152         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

they  have  become  part  of  his  life.      Does  the 
reader  remember  this  from  the  first  volume  ?— 

"  In  the  wild  October  night-time,  when  the  wind 

raved  round  the  land, 
And  the  Back-sea  met  the  Front-sea,   and  our 

doors  were  blocked  with  sand, 
And   we   heard   the   drub   of  Dead-man's  Bay, 

where  bones  of  thousands  are, 
We  knew  not  what  the  day  had  done  for  us  at 
Trafalgar. 

(All)         Had  done, 
Had  done 
For  us  at  Trafalgar  !  " 

Or  the  other  ballad  sung  by  a  Peninsular  sergeant — 

"When  we  lay  where  Budmouth  Beach  is, 

Oh,  the  girls  were  fresh  as  peaches, 
With  their  tall  and  tossing  figures  and  their  eyes 

of  blue  and  brown  ! 

And  our  hearts  would  ache  with  longing 
As  we  passed  from  our  sing-songing, 
With  a  smart  Clink !    Clink  /   up  the  Esplanade 
and  down." 

The  principal  attraction  of  Weymouth  is  its 
magnificent  bay,  which  has  caused  the  town  to 
be  depicted  on  the  railway  posters  as  the  "  Naples 
of  England  " ;  but  Mr  Harper,  in  his  charming 
book,  The  Hardy  Country,  cruelly  remarks  that 
no  one  has  yet  found  Naples  returning  the  com- 
pliment and  calling  itself  the  "Weymouth  of 
Italy."  But  there  is  no  need  for  Wreymouth  to 


ROUND  AND  ABOUT  WEYMOUTH  158 

powder  and  paint  herself  with  fanciful  attrac- 
tions, for  her  old-world  glamour  is  full  of  en- 
chantment. The  pure  Georgian  houses  on  the 
Esplanade,  with  their  fine  bow  windows  and  red- 
tiled  roofs,  are  very  warm  and  homely,  and  remind 
one  of  the  glories  of  the  coaching  days.  They 
are  guiltless  of  taste  or  elaboration,  it  is  true,  but 
they  have  an  honest  savour  about  them  which 
is  redolent  of  William  Cobbett,  pig-skin  saddles, 
real  ale  and  baked  apples.  And  those  are  some 
of  the  realest  things  in  the  world.  There  is  a 
distinct  "  atmosphere  "  about  the  shops  near  the 
harbour  too.  They  shrink  back  from  the  foot- 
path in  a  most  timid  way,  and  each  year  they 
seem  to  settle  down  an  inch  or  so  below  the  street- 
level,  with  the  result  that  they  are  often  entered 
by  awkward  steps. 

Near  the  Church  of  St  Mary  is  the  Market, 
which  on  Fridays  and  Tuesdays  presents  a  scene 
of  colour  and  activity.  In  the  Guildhall  are 
several  interesting  relics,  the  old  stocks  and 
whipping-posts,  a  chest  captured  from  the  Span- 
ish Armada  and  a  chair  from  the  old  house  of  the 
Dominican  friars  which  was  long  ago  demolished. 

Preston,  three  miles  north-east  of  Weymouth, 
is  a  prettily  situated  village  on  the  main  road  to 
Wareham,  with  interesting  old  thatched  cottages 
and  a  fifteenth-century  church  containing  an 


154         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

ancient  font,  a  Norman  door,  holy-water  stoups 
and  squint.  At  the  foot  of  the  hill  a  little  one- 
arched  bridge  over  the  stream  was  once  regarded 
as  Roman  masonry,  but  the  experts  now  think  it 
is  Early  Norman  work.  Adjoining  Preston  is  the 
still  prettier  village  of  Sutton  Poyntz,  hemmed 
in  by  the  Downs,  on  the  side  of  which,  in  a  con- 
spicuous position,  is  the  famous  figure,  cut  in 
the  turf,  of  King  George  III.  on  horseback.  He 
looks  very  impressive,  with  his  cocked  hat  and 
marshal's  baton.  Sutton  Poyntz  is  the  principal 
locale  of  Hardy's  story  of  The  Trumpet  Major. 
The  tale  is  of  a  sweet  girl,  Anne  Garland,  and  two 
brothers  Loveday,  who  loved  her ;  the  "  gally- 
bagger  "  sailor,  Robert,  who  won  her,  and  John, 
the  easy-going,  gentle  soldier,  who  lost  her.  The 
Trumpet  Major  is  a  mellow,  loamy  novel,  and  the 
essence  of  a  century  of  sunshine  has  found  its 
way  into  the  pages.  Even  the  pensiveness  of  the 
story— the  sadness  of  love  unsatisfied— is  mellow. 
The  village  to-day,  with  its  tree- shaded  stream, 
crooked  old  barns  and  stone  cottages,  recalls 
the  spirit  of  the  novel  with  Overcombe  Mill  as 
a  central  theme.  How  vividly  the  pilgrim  can 
recall  the  Mill,  with  its  pleasant  rooms,  old-world 
garden,  and  the  stream  where  the  cavalry  soldiers 
came  down  to  water  their  horses  !  It  was  a  dearly 
loved  corner  of  England  for  John  Loveday,  and 


ROUND  AND  ABOUT  WEYMOUTH  155 

if  to  keep  those  meadows  safe  and  fair  a  life  was 
required,  he  was  perfectly  willing  to  pay  the  price 
—nay,  more,  he  was  proud  and  glad  to  do  so.  In 
the  end  John  was  killed  in  one  of  the  battles  of 
the  Peninsular  War,  and  his  spirit  is  echoed  by  a 
soldier  poet  who  went  to  his  death  in  1914  : 

"  Mayhap  I  shall  not  walk  again 

Down  Dorset  way,  down  Devon  way. 
Nor  pick  a  posy  in  a  lane 

Down  Somerset  and  Sussex  way. 

But  though  my  bones,  unshriven,  rot 
In  some  far-distant  alien  spot, 
What  soul  I  have  shall  rest  from  care 
To  know  that  meadows  still  are  fair 
Down  Dorset  way,  down  Devon  way." 

The  mill  is  not  the  one  sketched  in  the  tale,  but 
it  still  grinds  corn,  and  one  can  still  see  "  the 
smooth  mill-pond,  over-full,  and  intruding  into 
the  hedge  and  into  the  road."  The  real  mill  is 
actually  at  Upwey. 

Bincombe,  two  miles  north-east  of  Upwey,  is 
one  of  the  "  outstep  placen,"  where  the  remnants 
of  dialect  spoken  in  the  days  of  Wessex  kings  is 
not  quite  dead,  and  as  we  go  in  and  out  among 
the  old  cottages  we  come  upon  many  a  word 
which  has  now  been  classed  by  annotators  as 
"obsolete."  "I'd  as  lief  be  wooed  of  a  snail," 
says  Rosalind  in  As  You  Like  It  of  the  tardy 
Orlando,  and  "  I'd  as  lief  "  or  "  I'd  liefer  "  is  still 


156         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

heard  here  in  Bincombe.  There  is  a  large  sur- 
vival of  pure  Saxon  in  the  Wessex  speech,  and 
Thomas  Hardy  has  made  a  brave  attempt  to  pre- 
serve the  old  local  words  in  his  novels.  He  has 
always  deplored  the  fact  that  schools  were  driving 
out  the  racy  Saxon  words  of  the  West  Country, 
and  once  remarked  to  a  friend  : 

"  I  have  no  sympathy  with  the  criticism  which 
would  treat  English  as  a  dead  language— a  thing 
crystallised  at  an  arbitrarily  selected  stage  of  its 
existence,  and  bidden  to  forget  that  it  has  a  past 
and  deny  that  it  has  a  future.  Purism,  whether 
in  grammar  or  vocabulary,  almost  always  means 
ignorance.  Language  was  made  before  grammar, 
not  grammar  before  language.  And  as  for  the 
people  who  make  it  their  business  to  insist  on  the 
utmost  possible  impoverishment  of  our  English 
vocabulary,  they  seem  to  me  to  ignore  the  lessons 
of  history,  science,  and  common  sense. 

"  It  has  often  seemed  to  me  a  pity,  from  many 
points  of  view— and  from  the  point  of  view  of 
language  among  the  rest— that  Winchester  did 
not  remain,  as  it  once  was,  the  royal,  political, 
and  social  capital  of  England,  leaving  London  to 
be  the  commercial  capital.  The  relation  between 
them  might  have  been  something  like  that  be- 
tween Paris  and  Marseilles  or  Havre ;  and  per- 
haps, in  that  case,  neither  of  them  would  have 


ROUND  AND  ABOUT  WEYMOUTH  157 

been  so  monstrously  overgrown  as  London  is  to- 
day. We  should  then  have  had  a  metropolis  free 
from  the  fogs  of  the  Thames  Valley;  situated, 
not  on  clammy  clay,  but  on  chalk  hills,  the  best 
soil  in  the  world  for  habitation  ;  and  we  might 
have  preserved  in  our  literary  language  a  larger 
proportion  of  the  racy  Saxon  of  the  West  Country. 
Don't  you  think  there  is  something  in  this  ?  " 

Returning  from  Bincombe  and  passing  through 
Sutton  to  Preston  we  come  in  a  mile  to  Osmington. 
A  short  distance  beyond  the  village  a  narrow  road 
leads  off  seawards  to  Osmington  Mills.  Crossing 
the  hills,  this  narrower  road  descends  to  the  coast 
and  the  Picnic  Inn— a  small  hostelry  noted  for 
"lobster  lunches"  and  "prawn  teas."  If  we 
strike  inland  from  Osmington  we  come  to  Pox- 
well,  the  old  manor-house  of  the  Hennings,  a 
curiously  walled-in  building  with  a  very  interest- 
ing gate-house.  This  is  the  Oxwell  Manor  of  The 
Trumpet  Major  and  the  house  of  Benjamin  Derri- 
man — "  a  wizened  old  gentleman,  in  a  coat  the 
colour  of  his  farmyard,  breeches  of  the  same  hue, 
unbuttoned  at  the  knees,  revealing  a  bit  of  leg 
above  his  stocking  and  a  dazzlingly  white  shirt- 
frill  to  compensate  for  this  untidiness  below.  The 
edge  of  his  skull  round  his  eye-sockets  was  visible 
through  the  skin,  and  he  walked  with  great 
apparent  difficulty." 


158         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

Pressing  onward  from  this  village,  we  arrive, 
after  a  two-mile  walk,  at  "Warm'ell  Cross," 
three  miles  south-west  of  Moreton  station.  The 
left  road  leads  to  Dorchester,  the  right  one  to 
Wareham,  and  the  centre  one  across  the  im- 
memorially  ancient  and  changeless  "Egdon 
Heath."  Here  we  turn  to  the  right  and  Ower- 
moigne,  the  "  Nether  Mynton "  in  which  the 
events  of  The  Distracted  Preacher  take  place. 
Here  indeed  is  a  nook  which  seems  to  be  a  sur- 
vival from  another  century  ;  a  patch  of  England 
of  a  hundred  years  ago  set  down  in  the  England 
of  to-day.  The  church  where  Lizzie  Newberry 
and  her  smugglers  stored  "  the  stuff  "  is  hidden 
from  those  who  pass  on  the  highroad  and  is 
reached  by  a  little  rutty,  crooked  lane.  The 
body  of  the  church  has  been  rebuilt,  but  the 
tower  where  the  smugglers  looked  down  upon 
the  coastguard  officers  searching  for  their  casks 
of  brandy  remains  the  same. 

The  highway  leads  for  two  miles  along  the 
verge  of  Egdon  Heath,  and  then  we  come  to  a 
right-hand  turning  taking  us  past  Winfrith  New- 
burgh  and  over  the  crest  of  the  chalk  downs 
steeply  down  to  West  Lulworth. 

Lulworth  Cove  is  justly  considered  one  of  the 
most  delightful  and  picturesque  retreats  on  the 
coast.  It  is  a  circular  little  basin  enclosed  by 


ROUND  AND  ABOUT  WEYMOUTH  159 

towering  cliffs  of  chalk  and  sand  and  entered  by 
a  narrow  opening  between  two  bluffs  of  Portland 
stone.  It  exhibits  a  section  of  all  the  beds  be- 
tween the  chalk  and  oolite,  and  owes  its  peculiar 
form  to  the  unequal  resistance  of  these  strata  to 
the  action  of  the  sea.  The  perpetually  moving 
water,  having  once  pierced  the  cliff  of  stone,  soon 
worked  its  way  deeply  into  the  softer  sand  and 
chalk. 

Lulworth  is  the  "  Lullstead  Cove"  of  the 
Hardy  novels.  Here  Sergeant  Troy  was  supposed 
to  have  been  drowned;  it  is  one  of  the  landing- 
places  chosen  by  the  Distracted  Preacher's 
parishioners  during  their  smuggling  exploits,  and 
in  Desperate  Remedies  it  is  the  first  meeting-place 
of  Cynthera  Graye  and  Edward  Springrove. 

The  cove  is  most  conveniently  reached  from 
Swanage  by  steamer.  By  rail  the  journey  is 
made  to  Wool  and  thence  by  bus  for  five  miles 
southward.  By  road  the  short  way  is  by  Church 
Knowle,  Steeple,  Tyneham  and  East  Lulworth— 
but  the  hills  are  rather  teasing;  however,  the 
views  are  wonderful.  It  is  nine  miles  if  one 
takes  the  Wareham  road  from  Corfe  as  far  as 
Staborough,  there  turning  to  the  left  for  East 
Holme,  West  Holme  and  East  Lulworth. 

The  entrance  to  the  cove  from  the  Channel  is 
a  narrow  opening  in  the  cliff,  which  here  rises 


160         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

straight  from  the  sea.  Mounted  on  a  summit  on 
the  eastern  side  of  the  breach  is  a  coastguard's 
look-out,  while  in  a  hollow  on  the  other  side  are 
the  remains  of  Little  Bindon  Abbey.  The  cove 
is  an  almost  perfect  circle,  and  in  summer  the 
tide,  as  it  flows  in,  fills  the  white  cove  with  a 
shimmering  sheet  of  light  blue  water.  Each 
wave  breaks  the  surface  into  a  huge  circle,  and 
the  effect  from  the  heights  is  a  succession  of 
wonderful  sparkling  rings  vanishing  into  the 
yellow  sands.  To  the  east  rise  the  ridges  of 
Bindon  Hill  and  the  grey  heights  of  Portland 
stone  that  terminate  seaward  in  the  Mupe  Rocks, 
then  the  towering  mass  of  Ring's  Hill,  crowned 
by  the  large  oblong  entrenchment  known  as 
Flower's  Barrow,  which  has  probably  been  both 
a  British  and  a  Roman  camp. 

In  the  summer  steamers  call  daily  at  the  cove. 
The  landing  is  effected  by  means  of  boats  or  long 
gangways.  After  having  climbed  the  hill  roads 
into  Lulworth,  the  pilgrim  will  not,  I  am  certain, 
look  with  any  delight  upon  a  return  to  them,  and 
will  welcome  an  alternative  trip  to  Swanage, 
Wey mouth  or  Bournemouth  by  an  excursion 
steamer. 

Portisham,  under  the  bold,  furzy  hills  that  rise 
to  the  commanding  height  of  Blackdown,  appears 
in  The  Trumpet  Major  as  the  village  to  which 


CORFE  CASTLE 
From  a  photograph  taken  in  1865 

The  old-time  shepherd  stands  in  the  foreground  with  his  dog  ~a  shaggy 
ruffian  of  a  now  fast-disappearing  breed 


160 


ROUND  AND  ABOUT  WEYMOUTH  161 

Bob  Loveday  (who  was  spasmodically  in  love 
with  Anne  Garland)  comes  to  attach  himself  to 
AdmiraL  Hardy  for  service  in  the  Royal  Navy. 
Notwithstanding  the  fact  that  Robert  Loveday 
is  merely  an  imaginary  character,  the  admiral 
was  a  renowned  hero  in  real  life,  and  no  less  a 
personage  than  Admiral  Sir  Thomas  Hardy.  He 
lived  here,  in  a  picturesque  old  house  just  outside 
the  village,  and  the  chimney-like  tower  on  Black 
Down  was  erected  to  his  memory.  In  a  garden 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road  to  Hardy's  house 
is  a  sundial,  inscribed : 

JOSEPH  HARDY,  ESQ. 
KINGSTON  RUSSELL,  LAT.  50°  45' 

1769 
FUGIO  FUGE 

Admiral  Hardy  was  born  at  Kingston  Russell, 
and  his  old  home  at  Portisham  is  still  in  the 
possession  of  a  descendant  on  the  female  side. 

From  Portisham  a  walk  of  four  miles  leads 
to  Abbotsbury,  situated  at  the  verge  of  the  Vale 
of  Wadden  and  the  Chesil  Beach.  The  railway 
station  is  about  ten  minutes'  walk  from  the 
ancient  village,  which  consists  of  a  few  houses 
picturesquely  dotted  around  the  church  and 
scattered  ruins  of  the  Abbey  of  St  Peter.  The 
abbey  was  originally  founded  in  King  Knut's 
L 


162        THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

reign  by  Arius,  the  "  house-carl,"  or  steward,  to 
the  king,  about  1044,  in  the  reign  of  Edward  the 
Confessor.  The  building  at  the  south-east  corner 
of  the  church  is  part  of  the  old  abbey.  It  is  now 
used  as  a  carpenter's  shop,  but  an  old  stoup  can 
be  seen  in  the  corner.  At  the  farther  end  of  this 
building  is  a  cell  in  which  the  last  abbot  is  said  to 
have  been  starved  to  death. 

A  gate-house  porch  and  a  buttressed  granary 
of  fourteenth-century  architecture,  still  used  as  a 
barn,  and  a  pond,  with  a  tree-covered  island,  the 
ancient  fish-pond  of  the  monks,  are  all  that 
remain  to  remind  us  of  the  historic  past  of  this 
spot. 


CHAPTER  IX 

POOLE 

THE  wide  expanse  of  Poole  Harbour  is  a 
well-known  haunt  of  sportsmen,  for  in  the 
winter  it  is  the  home  of  innumerable  wild-fowl, 
and  for  those  who  are  fond  of  yachting  and 
pottering  about  with  boats  it  is  large  enough  to 
test  their  skill  and  patience  in  controlling  a  craft 
in  the  wind  and  wave.  Here  we  get  a  double 
tide,  the  second  rising  rather  higher  than  the 
first,  and  when  the  tide  is  in  the  view  is  not  un- 
like a  Dutch  landscape.  But  the  ebb  lays  bare 
acres  of  mud-banks,  which  mar  the  prospect. 
However,  the  marine  emanations  from  the  mud- 
banks  are  said  to  be  very  salubrious.  This 
harbour  is  the  only  haven  between  Southampton 
and  Weymouth  for  yachting  men. 

Inland  from  Poole  the  country  is  pleasantly 
varied  by  hills  and  heaths,  through  which,  on  the 
west  side  of  the  harbour,  the  verge  of  Bourne- 
mouth is  reached,  and  an  hour's  walk  will  take 
the  pilgrim  over  the  Hampshire  boundary. 

Poole  Quay,  where  we  smell  the  smell  of  tar, 
piled-up  teak  and  reeking  pine,  is  an  interesting 

163 


164         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

place  for  lovers  of  the  picturesque.  Here  we 
find  an  old  postern  gate  of  Richard  III.'s  day, 
and  the  Town  Cellar  or  Wool  House.  The  last 
recalls  the  days  when  Poole  was  part  of  the  manor 
of  Canford.  The  lords  of  Canford  sometimes 
received  toll  in  kind,  and  the  goods  handed  over 
were  stored  in  this  "Town  Cellar."  It  is  par- 
ticularly interesting  for  the  way  its  walls  are 
formed,  of  flint  and  large,  squared  pieces  of  stone. 
The  smuggling  for  which  Poole  was  long 
notorious  is  handed  down  to  posterity  by  the 
following  doggerel : — 

"  If  Poole  was  a  fish-pool,  and  the  men  of  Poole 

fish, 

There'd  be  a  pool  for  the  devil,  and  fish  for  his 
dish." 

One  of  the  most  daring  and  successful  of 
English  buccaneers  was  Harry  Page  of  Poole,  or, 
as  he  was  more  commonly  called,  Arripay.  His 
enterprises  were  principally  directed  against  the 
coasts  of  France  and  Spain,  where  he  committed 
such  havoc  that  a  formidable  expedition  was 
fitted  out  in  those  countries  to  destroy  him.  It 
sailed  along  our  southern  shores,  destroying  as 
opportunity  offered,  until  it  reached  Poole.  Here 
it  landed,  and  a  battle  ensued,  in  which  the  in- 
habitants were  driven  from  the  town  and  the 
brother  of  Arripay  killed. 


POOLE  165 

The  island  of  Brownsea  or  Branksea  (it  has  a 
score  of  other  variations)  is  the  most  prominent 
feature  in  Poole  Harbour.  It  is  ovoid  in  shape, 
about  one  and  a  half  miles  long  by  one  mile  broad, 
and  lies  just  within  the  narrow  harbour  entrance, 
the  main  channel  sweeping  round  its  eastern  side. 
This  made  the  island  of  considerable  importance 
in  the  defence  of  the  port,  and  led  to  the  erection 
of  Brownsea  Castle  towards  the  end  of  the  reign 
of  Henry  VIII.  Prior  to  this  Brownsea  had  been 
part  of  the  possessions  of  the  Abbey  of  Cerne. 
The  castle  was  almost  wholly  destroyed  by  fire 
in  1896,  and  in  the  following  year  rebuilt. 

From  Poole  the  pilgrim  can  cross  by  the  toll- 
bridge  to  Hamworth  and  visit  Lytchett  Minster, 
which  is  two  miles  north-west  of  the  lonely  rail- 
way junction.  Part  of  the  action  of  The  Hand 
of  Ethelberta  takes  place  in  this  neighbourhood. 
The  sign  of  one  of  the  village  inns,  "  St  Peter's 
Finger,"  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  features  of 
Lytchett  Minster.  The  sign  shows  St  Peter  hold- 
ing up  a  hand  with  two  extended  fingers,  and  is  a 
curious  instance  of  the  way  in  which  old  terms 
and  traditions  are  exposed  to  corruption.  Sir  B. 
Windle  explains  the  matter  tersely  and  clearly: 
"August  the  1st,  Lammas  Day,  known  in  the 
calendar  of  the  Catholic  Church  as  St  Peter  ad 
Vincula,  was  one  of  the  days  on  which  prsedial 


166        THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

service  had  to  be  done  for  the  lord  of  certain 
manors,  as  a  condition  of  tenure  by  the  occupants. 
Such  lands  were  called  St  Peter-ad- Vincula  lands, 
a  term  which  easily  got  corrupted  into  St  Peter's 
finger." 

A  brief  description  of  Poole  —under  the  Wessex 
name  of  "  Havenpool  "—is  given  in  Hardy's  "  To 
please  his  Wife,"  one  of  the  short  stories  of  Life's 
Little  Ironies.  It  is  the  story  of  Captain  Shad- 
rack  Jolliff,  who  gave  up  the  sea  and  settled  down 
in  his  native  town  as  a  grocer,  marrying  Joanna 
Phippard.  They  had  two  sons,  but  the  captain 
did  not  make  much  progress  in  business  and  his 
wife  persuaded  him  to  go  to  sea  again,  as  they 
were  in  need  of  money.  He  bought  a  small 
vessel  and  went  into  the  Newfoundland  trade, 
returning  home  with  his  makings,  which  were 
deemed  insufficient  by  his  wife.  Accordingly  he 
resolved  to  make  another  voyage,  and  take  his 
sons  with  him  so  that  his  profits  might  be  more 
considerable.  From  this  voyage  they  never  re- 
turned, and  Joanna  was  left  penniless.  She  spent 
the  rest  of  her  life  expecting  the  return  of  her 
husband  and  sons. 

It  is  evident  that  Hardy  chose  the  name  of 
Jolliff  from  his  counterpart  in  real  life,  an 
honest,  deep-hearted  son  of  Poole,  Peter  Jolliff 
by  name,  master  of  the  Sea  Adventurer.  Off 


POOLE  167 

Swanage,  in  1694,  with  only  the  aid  of  a  small 
boy,  he  captured  a  French  privateer  and  made 
its  crew  prisoners  of  war.  He  secured  royal 
recognition  for  this  bold  act  and  received  a  gold 
chain  and  medal  from  the  hands  of  the  King. 

To  the  pilgrim  who  seeks  things  of  antique 
beauty  and  interest  on  foot,  with  staff  and  wallet, 
in  the  old  way,  I  cannot  recommend  a  more  en- 
joyable route  than  along  the  coast  from  Poole  to 
Lyme,  which  may  be  covered  in  a  week.  But  to 
do  the  thing  comfortably  ten  days  would  be 
more  advisable.  Here  is  the  itinerary  if  a  week 
is  taken.  First  day,  borders  of  Poole  Harbour 
by  Studland  to  Swanage ;  second  day,  Swanage 
to  West  Lulworth ;  the  third,  Lulworth  by 
Osmington  to  Weymouth ;  the  fourth,  Wey- 
mouth  and  Portland ;  the  fifth,  Weymouth  by 
Abbotsbury  to  Bridport ;  and  the  sixth,  Brid- 
port  to  Lyme.  Should  the  walker  allow  himself 
a  few  extra  days  he  might  give  an  extra  day  to 
Purbeck,  to  visit  Corfe  Castle,  pay  a  visit  to 
Dorchester,  and  to  give  himself  two  days  between 
Weymouth  and  Bridport,  halting  midway  at 
Abbotsbury. 


CHAPTER  X 

SWANAGE   AND   CORFE   CASTLE 

WAN  AGE  is  a  well-known  seaside  resort, 
rapidly  growing  in  favour.  It  nestles  in 
the  farther  corner  of  a  lovely  little  bay,  and 
though  in  the  rapid  extension  of  rows  of  newly 
arisen  houses,  consequent  upon  the  development 
of  its  fame  as  a  watering-place,  much  of  its  old- 
time,  half- sleepy,  half-commercial  aspect  has 
passed  away,  Kingsley's  still  remains  the  best 
description  of  this  spot  — "  well  worth  seeing, 
and  when  once  seen  not  easily  to  be  forgotten. 
A  little  semicircular  bay,  its  northern  horn 
formed  by  high  cliffs  of  white  chalk  (Ballard 
Head),  ending  in  white,  isolated  stacks  and  peaks 
(The  Pinnacles,  Old  Harry  and  his  Wife,  etc.), 
round  whose  feet  the  blue  sea  ripples  for  ever. 
In  the  centre  of  the  bay  the  softer  Wealden  beds 
have  been  worn  away,  forming  an  amphitheatre 
of  low  sand  and  clay  cliffs.  The  southern  horn 
(Peveril  Point)  is  formed  by  the  dark  limestone 
beds  of  the  Purbeck  marble.  A  quaint,  old- 
world  village  slopes  down  to  the  water  over  green 
downs,  quarried,  like  some  gigantic  rabbit- 

168 


SWANAGE  AND  CORFE  CASTLE    169 

burrow,  with  the  stone  workings  of  seven  hundred 
years.  Land-locked  from  every  breeze,  huge  elms 
flourish  on  the  dry  sea  beach,  and  the  gayest  and 
tenderest  garden  flowers  bask  under  the  hot  stone 
walls." 

Tilly  Whim  is  one  of  the  attractions  here.  A 
short  walk  by  Peveril  Point,  Durlston  Bay  and 
Durlston  Head  leads  to  Tilly  Whim,  which  is  on 
the  eastern  side  of  oddly  named  Anvil  Cove,  and 
is  the  first  of  a  series  of  cliff  quarries  opened  in 
the  Portland-Purbeck  beds  along  the  coast.  The 
cliff  has  been  tunnelled  into  a  series  of  gigantic 
chambers,  supported  by  huge  pillars  of  the  living 
rock  and  opening  on  a  platform  in  the  face  of 
the  precipice,  beneath  which  the  waters  roar  and 
rage  almost  unceasingly.  The  boldness  of  the 
headland,  the  sombre  greys  of  the  rocks,  the 
rude,  massive  columns  which  support  the  roof  of 
the  huge  cavity,  the  restless  sea— all  are  elements 
that  heighten  the  scenic  effect  of  a  spot  almost 
unique  of  its  kind.  Tilly  Whim  has  been  com- 
pared to  a  "huge  rock  temple  "—like  those  of 
India. 

Thomas  Hardy  has  left  us  another  interesting 
description  of  the  Swanage  of  bygone  days  : 
"Knollsea  was  a  seaside  village,  lying  snugly 
within  two  headlands,  as  between  a  finger  and 
thumb.  Everybody  in  the  parish  who  was  not  a 


170         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

boatman  was  a  quarrier,  unless  he  were  the 
gentleman  who  owned  half  the  property  and 
had  been  a  quarryman,  or  the  other  gentleman 
who  owned  the  other  half  and  had  been  to  sea." 

At  the  time  this  was  written  the  steamers  were 
moored  to  a  "  row  of  rotten  piles,"  but  these  have 
long  passed  away  and  their  place  has  been  taken 
by  a  substantial  pier.  But,  let  there  be  what 
changes  there  may,  there  will  always  be  quarries 
in  the  town ;  it  is  one  of  those  primeval  voca- 
tions which  remain  unchanged  and  unchangeable 
in  the  midst  of  our  changing  civilisation.  The 
quarry  folk  were  an  exceptionally  reserved  and 
isolated  people,  and  the  way  their  occupation  has 
worked  in  the  creation  of  a  peculiar  race  is,  while 
not  at  all  surprising,  yet  very  remarkable.  The 
quarries  have  afforded  a  singular  and  most  inter- 
esting instance  of  the  survival,  in  full  working 
order,  of  a  mediaeval  trades  guild  of  a  somewhat 
primitive  type,  and  even  in  these  days  no  stranger 
is  permitted  to  share  in  their  rights  and  privileges. 

The  right  to  become  a  quarryman  is  inherited 
from  one  family  to  another,  and  the  admission 
into  the  guild  is  an  important  ceremony  :  "  The 
quarries  and  merchants  have  from  time  im- 
memorial formed  a  sort  of  guild  or  company, 
whose  rules  are  still  enforced,  affecting  not  only 
the  prices  of  work,  but  determining  the  whole 


El 


170 


SWANAGE  AND  CORFE  CASTLE    171 

social  position  and  character  of  the  people.  The 
Society  calls  itself  '  The  Company  of  the  Marblers 
and  Stone-Cutters  of  the  Isle  of  Purbeck,'  and  its 
meetings  are  held  annually  on  Shrove  Tuesday 
in  the  Townhall  of  Corfe  Castle.  Here  they 
choose  wardens  and  stewards,  settle  bye-laws 
and  other  business,  and  determine  any  difference 
between  members  in  relation  to  the  trade,  or 
punish  any  infractions  of  their  regulations.  At 
these  meetings  the  apprentices,  who  can  only  be 
sons  of  quarrymen,  are,  when  they  have  attained 
the  age  of  twenty- one,  made  free  members  of  this 
community,  on  presenting  themselves  in  '  court ' 
with  a  fee  of  six  shillings  and  eightpence,  a  penny 
loaf  in  one  hand  and  a  pot  of  beer  in  the  other. 
Another  portion  of  the  business  consists  in  a 
visit  to  the  old  wharf  at  Owre,  and  there  renew- 
ing their  ancient  custom  of  presenting  a  pound 
of  pepper  to  the  landlord  of  the  little  inn  there, 
receiving  a  cake  from  him,  and  having  a  game 
of  foot-ball,  which,  in  connection  with  this  com- 
memoration of  the  ancient  acknowledgment  for 
rent  or  use  of  wharfage,  is  called  the  4  Pepper 
Ball.'  Seven  years  after  taking  up  their  freedom 
freemen  may  take  apprentices.  The  widow  of 
a  freeman  may  take  up  her  freedom  on  payment 
of  one  shilling,  and  then  employ  apprentices  and 
carry  on  business.  At  the  annual  meeting  the 


172        THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

sons  of  freemen  are  registered,  and  are  not  allowed 
to  work  at  any  department  of  the  business  unless 
duly  registered." 

The  great  majority  of  the  old  quarry- owners  were 
members  of  a  dozen  families  only,  there  being  just 
a  score  of  Bowers ;  Collinses,  Harrises,  Haysomes, 
Normans,  Phippards  and  Tomeses  averaging  half- 
a-dozen  each  ;  with  Coopers,  Corbens,  Landers, 
Stricklands  and  Bonfields  not  far  behind. 

New-comers  were  much  disliked  by  the  quarry- 
men,  and  the  custom  of  "  marrying  the  land  "  was 
observed  in  former  days  and,  for  aught  I  know, 
may  be  observed  now.  However,  we  do  know 
that  "  foreigners  "  were  not  allowed  to  hold  land 
in  the  Isle  of  Portland  a  hundred  years  ago,  and 
the  inhabitants,  who  claimed  to  be  true  descend- 
ants of  the  Phoenicians  who  traded  with  Cornwall 
and  Devonshire  for  tin,  kept  themselves  a  distinct 
people.  In  "  marrying  the  land  "  the  contract- 
ing parties  met  at  church,  and  joining  hands  the 
one  who  handed  over  the  property  simply  said  : 
"  I,  Uncle  Tom  "  (the  surname  was  never  used 
by  the  quarry  folk),  "  give  to  thee,  Cousin  An- 
tony, such-and-such  land."  The  clergyman  then 
placed  his  hands  over  the  others,  and  the  contract 
was  concluded. 

As  I  have  said,  the  old-world  village  of  Swanage 
has  altered  much,  and  has  become  a  town,  and 


SWANAGE  AND  CORFE  CASTLE     173 

since  the  opening  of  the  branch  railway  from 
Wareham  in  the  latter  end  of  the  eighties  of 
the  nineteenth  century  the  ancient  customs  and 
characters  of  those  unhurried,  simpler,  happier  days 
have  been  swept  away.  The  calming  quietude 
of  the  quaint  old  stone  houses  is  now  disturbed 
by  ugty»  modern  erections  of  red  brick.  But  the 
quaint  cottages,  solid  in  great  stone  slabs  and 
stone  tiles,  still  breathe  the  true  artlessness  of  the 
quarry  folk.  They  are  an  instance  of  provident 
care  and  sound  workmanship  defying  the  neglect 
of  a  hundred  successive  tenants.  The  High 
Street  of  Old  Swanage,  which  rises  uphill  from 
the  Ship  Hotel  towards  the  church,  traversing 
the  centre  of  the  town  from  east  to  west,  seems 
saturated  with  human  influence  and  has  a  flavour 
all  its  own.  Half-way  up  the  street  on  the  right 
is  the  Town  Hall,  with  an  ornate  fa$ade  which 
once  formed  part  of  the  Mercers'  Hall  in  London, 
designed  by  Sir  Christopher  Wren.  A  few  yards 
down  the  side-turning  by  the  hall  can  be  seen,  on 
the  left,  an  even  greater  curiosity,  the  Old  Lock- 
Up,  of  stone,  "  erected,"  as  an  inscription  records, 
"  for  the  prevention  of  wickedness  and  vice  by 
friends  of  religion  and  good  order,  A.D.  1803." 

On  the  left  is  Purbeck  House,  a  low,  private 
residence,  built  by  a  "  local  Maecenas,"  the  late 
Mr  Burt,  the  contractor,  in  1876.  The  fish  vane, 


174         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

of  burnished  copper,  formerly  adorned  Billings- 
gate Market,  and  the  wall  fronting  the  street  is 
faced  with  granite  chips  from  the  Albert  Memorial, 
Hyde  Park. 

When  we  reach  the  highest  point  of  the  main 
street  the  hill  pitches  down  to  the  right,  and  we 
look  upon  a  prospect  of  the  town  with  a  char- 
acter of  its  own,  not  unworthy  of  observation,  in 
which  the  sturdy,  square- towered  church  is  a 
striking  feature.  To  the  left  is  a  mill-pond, 
which  begins  to  wear  the  airs  of  history  and 
reflects  in  the  unruffled  lustre  of  its  waters  the 
inverted  images  of  some  very  quaint  houses  built 
of  grey  stone  and  almost  entirely  overspread  with 
fungi  and  moss.  The  lower  walls  of  stone  are 
black  and  polished  with  the  leaning  of  innumer- 
able shoulders,  and  the  steps  of  the  external  stone 
stairways  are  worn  into  gullies  by  the  tread  of 
generations.  The  extraordinary  "  yards  "  and 
byways  are  also  worthy  of  attention.  A  few 
downward  steps  will  bring  the  pilgrim  to  St 
Mary's  Church,  which  was  rebuilt  in  1859.  The 
parish  registers  date  back  to  1567,  and  the  tower 
is  thought  to  be  Saxon.  At  this  church  Ethel  - 
berta  Petherwin,  in  The  Hand  of  Ethelberta,  is 
secretly  married  to  Lord  Mountclere,  and  her 
father  and  brother  arrive  too  late  to  interfere 
with  the  ceremony. 


SWANAGE  AND  CORFE  CASTLE    175 

A  walk  along  the  Herston  Road  brings  us  to 
Newton  Manor,  one  of  the  old  Dorset  manor- 
houses.  The  only  relics  of  the  ancient  building 
are  an  Elizabethan  stone  fireplace  in  the  kitchen 
and  the  barn  of  the  old  homestead,  with  an  open 
timber  roof,  which  has  been  converted  into  a 
dining-hall.  In  the  latter  is  a  fine  carved  stone 
chimneypiece  brought  from  a  Florentine  palace. 

A  favourite  excursion  from  Swanage  is  a  trip 
to  Studland.  Any  native  will  direct  the  pilgrim 
to  the  footpath  way  to  the  "  Rest  and  be 
Thankful  "  seat  at  the  top  of  Ballard  Down, 
where  one  can  take  a  well-beaten  track  to  the 
entrance  of  the  village.  At  the  remains  of  an  old 
cross  bear  to  the  right  and  follow  a  picturesque 
"  water  lane  "  to  the  shore.  Studland  is  one  of 
the  most  charming  villages  in  England,  and  the 
church  is  one  of  the  most  notable  in  Dorset.  It 
is  an  admirable  example  of  intact  Norman  work, 
and  its  chief  details  are  perfect —including  a 
quaint  corbel  table  in  the  nave,  font,  and  moulded 
arches  with  carved  capitals. 

The  celebrated  Agglestone  is  about  a  mile  away 
on  Studland  Common.  It  is  a  huge  fragment  of 
the  iron-cemented  sandstone  of  the  locality, 
raised  on  a  mound  above  the  heath.  It  has  been 
regarded  as  a  Druidical  memorial,  but  though 
that  idea  may  now  be  considered  exploded, 


176         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

associations  still  attach  to  it,  since  we  are  told 
"  the  name  Agglestone  (Saxon,  halig-stan  =  holy 
stone)  certainly  seems  to  show  that  it  was  erected 
for  some  superstitious  purpose."  The  country 
people  call  it  the  Devil's  Nightcap,  and  there  is  a 
tradition  that  his  Satanic  Majesty  threw  it  from 
the  Isle  of  Wight,  with  an  intent  to  demolish 
Corfe  Castle,  but  that  it  dropped  short  here  ! 
How  it  comes  to  be  poised  here  has  puzzled  the 
archaeologist,  but  it  has  been  explained  as  being 
simply  a  block  that  has  been  insulated  by  process 
of  nature,  the  result  of  its  protecting  from  the 
rigours  of  wind  and  rain  the  little  eminence 
which  it  caps. 

Corfe  is  six  miles  by  road  from  Swanage  by  way 
of  Langton  Matravers,  a  village  of  sombre  stone 
houses,  which  is  occupied  by  workers  in  the 
neighbouring  stone  quarries.  The  place-name 
"  Matravers "  is  identified  with  the  family  of 
Maltravers,  one  of  whom  was  the  unworthy  in- 
strument employed  by  Mortimer  and  Queen 
Isabella  in  the  murder  of  Edward  II.  This 
member  of  the  family  having  turned  out  to  be 
such  a  particularly  "  bad  Travers,"  his  descend- 
ants sought  to  hide  their  evil  reputation  by 
dropping  the  "  1  "  out  of  their  name. 

The  "  Old  Malt  House,"  which  is  now  a  school, 
is  a  fine  specimen  of  the  old-time  stone  building, 


178 


SWANAGE  AND  CORFE  CASTLE     177 

and  one  can  still  trace  bricked-in  windows,  where 
the  sacks  were  hoisted  in  to  the  malt  floors.  Pass- 
ing Gallow's  Gore  Cottages  we  come  to  Kingston, 
which  is  two  miles  from  Corfe  Castle,  and  is 
pleasantly  situated  on  an  eminence  which  com- 
mands a  good  view  of  the  surrounding  country. 
Encombe,  the  seat  of  the  Eldons,  is  about  two 
miles  to  the  south-west  and  is  the  Enckworth 
Court  (Lychworth  Court  in  early  editions)  of  The 
Hand  of  Ethelberta.  The  house  lies  deep  down 
in  the  beautiful  valley  of  Encombe,  which  opens 
out  to  the  sea,  with  fine  views  in  almost  every 
direction.  This  valley  is  known  as  the  Golden 
Bowl,  by  reason  of  the  fertility  of  the  soil.  A 
short  distance  from  Kingston  may  be  seen  the 
remains  of  the  old  manor-house  of  Scowles. 

On  the  morrow,  when  I  stepped  out  under  the 
famous  porch  chamber  of  the  Greyhound  Hotel, 
Corfe  wore  her  bright  morning  smile.  The  air  was 
soft,  warm  and  redolent  with  the  scent  of  good 
blue  wood  smoke.  Corfe  is  one  of  the  pleasantest 
villages  in  Dorset  and  has  a  wonderfully  soothing 
effect  upon  the  visitor.  I  should  recommend 
this  old-world  retreat  for  those  who  are  weary  of 
the  traffic  and  frenzy  of  the  city  market-place. 
The  prevailing  colour  of  the  old  houses  makes 
the  place  ever  cool-looking  and  lends  the  village 


178        THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

an  air  of  extreme  restfulness.  From  the  humblest 
cottage  to  the  Town  House  opposite  the  village 
cross  the  buildings  are  of  weather-beaten  stone, 
and  are  a  delicate  symphony  in  the  colour  grey, 
the  proportions  also  being  exactly  satisfying  to 
the  eye.  Stone  slabs  of  immense  size  form  the 
roofs  themselves.  Look  at  the  roof  of  the  Grey- 
hound Inn !  When  these  roof  stones  were  put 
down  the  builder  did  not  put  them  there  for  his 
own  day,  selfishly,  but  for  posterity.  This,  as 
Hilaire  Belloc  would  say,  is  a  benediction  of  a 
roof,  a  roof  that  physically  shelters  and  spiritu- 
ally sustains,  a  roof  majestic,  a  roof  eternal.  A 
walk  through  the  town  will  reveal  Tudor  win- 
dows, quaint  doorways  and  several  eighteenth- 
century  porches,  of  which  that  at  the  Greyhound 
is  the  best  example.  The  market-place,  with  the 
Bankes  Arms  Hotel  at  one  end,  the  Greyhound 
backing  on  to  the  castle  and  the  castle  and  hills 
peering  over  the  roof  tops  of  the  town,  gives  one 
a  mingled  pleasure  of  reminiscence  and  discovery. 
Standing  back  a  little  from  the  Swanage  road 
is  the  small  Elizabethan  manor-house  of  Dack- 
hams  or  Dacombs,  now  called  Morton  House, 
and  one  of  the  best  manor-houses  in  the  country. 
The  ground  plan  forms  the  letter  E,  and  it 
has  a  perfect  little  paved  courtyard  full  of 
flowers. 


SWANAGE  AND  CORFE  CASTLE     179 

Corfe  Church  was  rebuilt  in  1860,  but  it  pre- 
serves some  historic  continuity  in  its  tower,  which 
dates  from  the  end  of  the  fourteenth  century. 
The  churchwardens'  chest  in  the  porch  was  made 
in  the  year  1672,  and  Hy  Paulett,  who  made  it, 
was  paid  the  magnificent  sum  of  eight  shillings. 
And  did  Hy  Paulett  go  often  to  the  Greyhound 
and  allay  his  thirst  in  the  making  of  it  ?  A  man 
would  require  good  ale  to  make  such  a  "  brave 
good  "  chest  as  this.  And  can  they  make  such 
chests  in  these  days  ?  Lord  knows !  .  .  .  Any- 
how, there  is  something  in  such  a  piece  of  work 
which  appeals  to  me— something  which  seems  to 
satisfy  the  memories  in  my  blood.  The  clock 
dates  from  1539.  Curfew  is  tolled  in  Corfe  daily, 
from  October  to  March,  at  6  A.M.  and  8  P.M. 
Hutchins,  writing  at  the  end  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  tells  us  that  the  people  of  Corfe  were  of 
an  indolent  disposition,  and  goes  on  to  say  that 
"  the  appearance  of  misery  in  the  town  is  only 
too  striking."  Perhaps  they  "  mumped  "  around 
and  watched  Hy  Paulett  work  laboriously  on  the 
church  chest  and  became  downcast  when  he  only 
received  eight  shillings  for  it.  However,  the 
morality  of  Corfe  should  have  been  high,  for  the 
churchwardens  appear  to  have  been  very  exact- 
ing in  the  matter  of  Sabbath  observance.  In  the 
quaint  old  church  records,  which  date  from  1568, 


180         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

are  many  interesting  references  to  the  offenders 
in  this  respect  : 

"  1629.  We  do  Present  William  Smith  for  suffer- 
ing two  small  Boys  to  have  drink  upon  the 
Sabbath  day  during  Divine  service. 

Item.  We  do  Present  John  Rawles  for  being 
drunk  on  the  Sabbath  day  during  the  time 
of  Divine  service. 

Item.  We  Present  the  Miller  of  West  Mill  for 
grinding  on  the  Sabbath  day. 

Item.  We  do  Present  John  Pushman  Anthony 
Vye  and  James  Turner  for  playing  in  the 
Churchyard  upon  the  Sabbath  day. 

1630.  We  do  Present  William  Rawles  for  sending 
his  man  to  drive  upon  the  Sabbath  day. 

Item.  We  do  Present  James  Turner  and  George 
Cover  for  being  drinky  on  the  Sabbath  day 
during  the  time  of  Divine  service." 

The  reader  will  note  that  the  churchwardens 
at  Corfe  were  blessed  with  a  very  keen  sense  of 
moral  acumen  and  split  hairs  over  the  degrees  of 
inebriation.  They  found  it  intolerable  to  write 
a  man  down  as  intoxicated  who  had  "  half-a-pint 
otherwhile,"  so  they  merely  entered  him  in  their 
records  as  "  drinky  "  ;  while,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  man  who  was  vulgarly  concerned  in  liquor 
was  described  as  a  plain  "  drunk." 

According  to  an  old  rhyme  the  man  who  killed 
a  fox  was  a  great  benefactor  and  was  considered 
as  rendering  a  service  a  hundred  and  sixty  times 
more  important  than  the  man  who  killed  a  rook. 


SWANAGE  AND  CORFE  CASTLE    181 

"  A  half-penny  for  a  rook, 
A  penny  for  a  jay  ; 
A  noble  for  a  fox, 
And  twelve  pence  for  a  grey." 

But  a  noble  has  not  always  been  the  reward 
of  the  wily  rustic  who  could  entrap  Reynard,  and 
the  churchwardens  of  Corfe  were  certainly  a  little 
niggardly  in  their  disbursements  : 

s.     d. 

"1672  Paid  Richard  Turner  for  a  Pole-Cat  .  0    4 
Paid  for  three  Fox  Heads,  Is.  each  .  3     0 
1691  Margaret  White,  Son,  for  a  Hedge- 
Hog  head  .  .  .10 
Paid  for  one  dozen  Sparrow  Heads  .  0    2 

1698  June  22nd  — 

It  was  then  agreed  by  the  Parishioners 
of  Corfe  Castle  met  in  the  Parish  Church 
that  no  money  be  paid  for  the  heads  of 
any  vermin  by  the  Church  Wardens  un- 
less the  said  heads  be  brought  into  the 
Church  yard  within  one  week  after  they 
are  killed  and  exposed  to  Public  View." 

By  the  last  entry  it  will  be  seen  that  the 
parishioners  of  Corfe  were  determined  to  get  their 
money's  worth,  and  the  old  churchyard  must  at 
times  have  contained  quite  a  large  collection  of 
fur  and  feather.  Speaking  of  rewards  for  the 
extermination  of  the  fox,  I  am  reminded  of  an 
entry  in  the  Holne  Churchwardens'  accounts  for 
1782  which  has  a  tinge  of  sly  humour  about  it. 


182        THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

Four  shillings  and  two  pence  is  paid  for  "  running 
a  fox  to  Okehampton."  We  can  imagine  the 
good  churchwardens  of  Holne  rubbing  their  hands 
and  congratulating  themselves  on  having  got  rid 
of  Reynard,  or  speculating  over  future  raids  on 
domestic  fowls  in  the  Okehampton  district.  But 
the  churchwardens  were  not  too  hopeful ;  they 
were  a  little  doubtful.  As  "  dead  men  rise  up 
never,"  so  a  dead  fox  would  not  come  prowling 
home  again.  So  they  talked  the  matter  over  and 
decided  that  half  the  customary  noble  would  be 
a  fitting  remuneration  to  the  hunter  away  of  the 
fox. 

I  cannot  leave  Corfe  without  saying  a  few  words 
in  praise  of  the  Greyhound  Inn.  Here  the  beams 
of  the  roof  are  black  oak  and  squared  enormously, 
like  the  timbers  of  a  mighty  ship,  and  some  of  the 
odd,  low  doorways  remind  one  of  the  hatchways 
in  a  vessel.  Visitors  have  so  often  knocked  their 
heads  against  the  low  doors  that  it  has  been 
necessary  to  paint  in  large  letters  above  several 
of  them,  "MIND  YOUR  HEAD."  In  the  little 
smoke-room  at  the  back  one  might  fancy  himself 
on  board  a  ship  in  strange  seas— especially  does 
one  experience  this  sensation  in  the  evening 
before  the  candles  are  carried  in.  If  it  is  winter- 
time the  impression  is  more  intense— the  wind 
howls  and  worries  at  the  window  and  the  sky  is 


SWANAGE  AND  CORFE  CASTLE    188 

swept  clean  in  one  broad,  even  stretch  ;  then  one 
may  call  for  a  pint  of  Romsey  ale,  fill  the  pipe 
and  enjoy  the  lonely  kingdom  of  the  man  at  the 
helm  of  a  great  vessel.  When  morning  comes 
this  same  little  room  is  bright  and  cheerful.  The 
window  looks  out  on  a  narrow  courtyard  paved 
with  mighty  stones,  and  Corfe  Castle,  which 
thrusts  itself  into  every  view  of  the  town,  fills 
the  background.  In  the  winter  the  rustics  sit 
about  the  board  in  this  room,  but  they  do  not 
come  there  in  summer,  being  shy  of  visitors. 
The  labourers  seldom  wear  the  smocks,  made  of 
Russian  duck,  which  their  fore-elders  were  so  in- 
clined to  favour.  These  smocks  were  much  more 
stout  than  people  would  imagine,  and  the  texture 
was  so  closely  woven  and  waterproof  that  no  rain 
could  run  through  it. 

Four  miles  of  a  good,  comfortable  road  running 
through  a  breezy  heathland  brings  the  pilgrim 
from  Corfe  to  Wareham.  On  these  heaths  large 
quantities  of  white  clay  are  dug  up  and  run  in 
truckloads  to  fill  vessels  in  Poole  Harbour.  This 
clay  is  used  for  making  pipes  and  in  the  manu- 
facture of  china.  The  clay  pits  are  a  very 
ancient  and  uninterrupted  industry,  and  they 
have  been  worked  continuously  since  the  Romans 
discovered  them.  The  spade  of  the  Dorsetshire 


184        THOMAS^  HARDY'S  DORSET 

labourer  still  occasionally  turns  up  fragments  of 
Roman  pottery  made  from  this  identical  clay. 
When  Stoborough,  now  a  mere  village,  once  an 
antique  borough,  is  reached  we  come  within  sight 
of  Wareham,  which  is  entered  across  a  long 
causeway  over  the  Frome  marshes.  More  life 
can  be  seen  in  an  hour  here  by  the  Frome  than  in 
a  whole  long  day  upon  the  hills.  I  have  noticed 
how  the  birds  that  fly  inland,  high  above  me,  will 
follow  the  river  as  a  blind  man  feels  his  way,  by 
natural  impulse.  Over  the  water-meadows  the 
peewits  are  twisting  in  eccentric  circles,  and 
everywhere  in  the  reeds  the  little  grey-brown, 
bright-eyed  sedge- warblers  are  flitting  about. 
It  seems  almost  incredible  that  such  a  small  bird 
as  the  sedge-warbler  can  produce  such  a  torrent 
of  sound.  For  a  right  merry,  swaggering  song, 
which,  without  being  very  musical,  is  indeed 
exhilarating,  commend  me  to  the  sedge-warbler. 
He  sings  all  the  day  long,  and  often  far  into  the 
night,  and  even  if  he  wakes  up  for  a  few  seconds 
when  he  has  once  settled  down  to  sleep  he  always 
obliges  with  a  few  lively  chirrups. 

The  ancient  town  of  Wareham  has  been  alluded 
to  somewhat  contemptuously  by  several  writers 
as  "  slumberous "  and  dull.  Perhaps  it  is, 
although  it  is  brighter  in  appearance  than  some 
towns  near  London  that  I  know.  At  all  events 


SWANAGE  AND  CORFE  CASTLE     185 

its  stormy  youth— in  the  days  when  London  itself 
was  but  a  "  blinking  little  town  "—has  entitled 
it  to  a  peaceful  old  age.  All  the  scourges  against 
which  we  pray — plague,  pestilence,  famine, 
battle,  murder  and  sudden  death— have  been 
endured  with  great  strength  of  mind  and  calm- 
ness by  the  people  of  the  town.  Sir  Frederick 
Treves  tells  us  that  its  history  is  one  long,  lurid 
account  of  disaster,  so  that  it  would  need  a 
Jeremiah  to  tell  of  all  its  lamentations.  How- 
ever, an  indomitable  temper  and  a  readiness  to 
believe  that  to-morrow  will  be  brighter  than  to- 
day is  the  prevailing  spirit  of  her  people,  and  the 
town  has  an  incredible  hold  upon  life  and  the 
grassy  ramparts  which  almost  encircle  it.  The 
ramparts,  or  town  walls,  are  ten  centuries  old, 
and  form  three  sides  of  an  irregular  square,  and 
enclose,  together  with  the  Frome,  an  area  of  a 
hundred  acres.  Before  the  silting  up  of  Poole 
Harbour  the  sea  came  nearer  to  its  walls  than  it 
does  now  and  the  river  was  much  wider.  We 
learn  from  ancient  records  that  a  great  swamp 
stretched  seawards  from  the  foot  of  the  ridge. 
That  Wareham  was  a  port  of  a  kind  is  probable 
enough,  for  it  furnished  Edward  III.  with  three 
ships  and  fifty-nine  men  at  the  siege  of  Calais. 
As  far  back  as  one  can  follow  the  ancient  records 
of  the  town  a  good  number  of  ships  called  here, 


186        THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

and  when  one  comes  out  on  the  ample  quay  it  is 
clearly  seen  that  this  place  has  once  been  a  lively 
and  animated  wharf,  resounding  to  the  clatter  of 
sea-boots  and  the  songs  of  the  chanty  men.  The 
waterside  taverns  and  huge  storehouses  on  the 
boat-station  speak  of  the  brave  days  gone  by, 
and  I  cannot  imagine  a  more  pleasant  spot  to 
linger  in  on  a  sunny  day.  The  seats  and  tables 
outside  the  Rising  Sun  and  New  Inn  are  very 
inviting,  and  when  I  passed  this  way  it  gave  me 
peculiar  pleasure  to  spend  an  hour  here,  looking 
broadly  about  me.  As  I  looked  across  the  quay 
to  the  grey  bridge,  meadows  and  beautiful  fertile 
valley  the  odours  and  sounds  of  the  country 
cropped  up  around  me.  The  sun,  laying  a  broad 
hand  on  the  river,  had  smoothed  all  the  eddies 
out  and  was  sending  it  between  the  banks,  not 
bubbling  loud,  but  murmuring  softly.  Yes,  the 
river  was  very  sleepy  that  day.  However,  the 
Frome  has  its  share  of  living  interests.  Here 
one  can  see  the  heron  as  he  stands  upon  the 
shallows  waiting  till  an  eel  shall  move  in  the  mud. 
A  melancholy-looking  fellow  he  looks,  too,  as  he 
stands,  gaunt  and  still,  brooding  some  new  spell. 
Anon  a  small  bubble  rising  in  the  shallows, 
followed  by  a  slight  turbidness  of  the  water 
around  it,  attracts  the  watcher.  A  swift  step  or 
so,  a  lightning  flash  of  his  sharp  beak  and  he  has 


SWANAGE  AND  CORFE  CASTLE    187 

secured  his  eel.  One  watches  him  rising  with 
labouring  wings  in  a  direct  upward  flight,  the  eel 
writhing  in  fruitless  efforts  to  escape. 

The  summit  of  the  town  wall  is  used  as  a 
promenade,  and  one  part  of  the  west  rampart, 
looking  across  the  heath  to  the  Purbeck  Hills,  is 
called  the  "  Bloody  Bank."  Here  were  executed, 
by  order  of  Judge  Jeffreys,  some  of  Monmouth's 
unfortunate  adherents.  Their  bodies  were  cut 
up  and  placed  on  the  bridge,  and  their  heads 
were  nailed  to  a  wooden  tower  in  the  town  on  the 
completion  of  the  execution.  Here,  too,  Peter  of 
Pomfret  was  hanged.  He  was  a  queer,  cranky 
fellow  and  it  appears  that  he  was  given  to  draw- 
ing horoscopes  and  meddling  with  secret  and 
hidden  things.  He  would  have  been  quite  free 
from  any  trouble  had  he  not  ventured  to  read 
in  the  scheme  of  the  twelve  houses  of  the  Zodiac 
the  fortune  of  King  John.  He  read,  "  under  a 
position  of  heaven,"  that  the  King's  reign  would 
end  on  Ascension  Day,  23rd  May  1213,  and  this 
prophecy  reached  the  ears  of  the  King,  who  had 
little  faith  in  the  sayings  of  Peter.  However,  the 
King  made  up  his  mind  that  Peter's  reign  should 
end  on  this  date,  and  he  passed  the  unfortunate 
prophet  on  to  Corfe  Castle,  where,  we  may  be 
certain,  he  was  carefully  looked  after.  The  23rd 
of  May  passed  the  same  way  as  other  long-lost 


188        THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

May-days  and  pay-days  have  passed,  but  King 
John  was  still  very  lively  and  active,  and  to  con- 
vince Peter  of  Pomfret  that  he  was  a  poor  sooth- 
sayer he  ordered  the  fellow  to  be  whipped  at  the 
back  of  a  dung-cart  from  Corfe  to  Wareham, 
where  a  gallows  had  been  erected  to  welcome 
him.  At  Wareham  Peter  was  driven  through 
the  streets,  followed  by  a  crowd  of  yelling,  blood- 
thirsty people,  and  then  hanged  from  the  Bloody 
Bank,  with  the  heather-covered  moor  before  his 
eyes  and  the  sky  full  of  birds  twittering  and  flying 
above  his  head. 

The  name  Wareham  is  Saxon.  Wareham = 
Wearth-ham— "  the  dwelling  on  the  'land  be- 
tween two  waters  ' : '  (one  of  the  meanings  of 
wearth  or  worth),  a  name  descriptive  in  the  fullest 
sense  of  the  position  of  the  town  betwixt  the 
Frome  and  Piddle.  Certainly  the  history  and 
importance  of  Wareham  dates  back  to  Saxon 
days.  However,  on  the  strength  of  a  stone  built 
into  the  north  aisle  of  St  Mary's  Church,  which 
bears  the  inscription :  "  Catug  c  .  .  .  .  (Fi)  lius 
Gideo,"  this  foundation  has  been  presumed  to  be 
of  the  British  period,  a  bishop  bearing  the  name 
of  Gating  having  been  sent  from  Brittany  in  or 
about  430.  It  is  concluded  that  this  stone  is  the 
record  of  a  consecration  performed  by  him. 

Beohrtric,  King  of  Wessex,  is  said  to  have  been 


SWANAGE  AND  CORFE  CASTLE    189 

buried  at  Wareham,  and  here  for  a  time  lay  the 
body  of  Edward  the  Martyr.  Wareham  was  a 
favourite  landing-place  of  the  Danes,  and  despite 
its  vicissitudes  was  important  enough  to  sustain 
two  sieges  hi  the  wars  of  Stephen  and  Maud,  to  be 
twice  taken  and  once  burnt.  Wareham  was  once 
the  chief  port  of  Poole  Harbour  ;  but  while  Poole 
nourished  Wareham  decayed.  Unlike  other 
Dorset  towns  it  stood  by  the  Cavaliers,  but  as  the 
inhabitants  were  lacking  hi  martial  skill  and  a 
sufficient  body  of  troops,  the  town  was  made 
a  kind  of  shuttlecock  by  the  contending  parties. 
The  last  misfortune  of  the  town  was  its  almost 
total  destruction  by  fire  in  1762.  All  things  con- 
sidered, it  is  little  wonder,  therefore,  that  in  spite 
of  its  age  Wareham  has  so  few  antiquities.  The 
castle  has  left  but  a  name,  the  priory  little  more  ; 
but  reconstruction  has  spared  the  most  interest- 
ing feature  of  St  Mary's  Church— the  Chapel  of 
St  Edward— which  is  said  to  indicate  the  tem- 
porary burial-place  of  Edward  the  Martyr,  whose 
marble  coffin  is  now  to  be  seen  near  the  font. 

If  we  follow  the  road  from  where  the  town  is 
entered  across  the  picturesque  old  bridge  we  pass 
the  Black  Bear,  a  spacious  old  inn,  with  an 
excellent  effigy  of  Bruin  himself  sitting  grimly  on 
the  roof.  The  Red  Lion  is  the  inn  mentioned 
by  Hardy  in  The  Hand  of  Ethelberta.  The  queer 


190        THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

ivy-covered  little  Chapel  of  St  Martin,  on  the  left 
side  of  the  main  street,  at  the  top  of  the  rise  from 
the  Puddle,  is  visited  by  antiquaries  from  all  the 
counties  of  England.  It  is  one  hundred  and 
seventy  years  since  regular  services  were  held 
here.  The  roof  beams  are  very  ancient  and  still 
hold  their  own  without  any  other  aid.  The  in- 
terior is  vault-like  and  eerie,  and  about  the  old 
place  there  hangs  an  atmosphere  which  has  no 
affinity  with  the  everyday  world,  but  which 
reeks  up  from  long-neglected  tombs — a  mystic 
vapour,  sluggish  and  faintly  discernible.  An 
inscription  on  the  north  wall  is  to  the  memory 
of  a  surgeon,  his  wife  and  four  children.  The 
surgeon  died  in  1791,  at  the  age  of  eighty-one, 
from  an  "  apoplectic  fit."  It  is  rather  a  puzzle 
why  the  doctor  was  buried  in  this  church,  for  in 
1791  no  parson  had  officiated  here  for  fifty  years 
or  more.  The  pilgrim  will  be  interested  in  the 
DeviVs  Door,  by  the  altar,  a  memory  of  early 
Christian  superstition.  It  was  the  custom  to 
open  this  door  when  the  church  bells  were  rung, 
to  allow  the  devil  to  flee. 


CHAPTER  XI 

MY   ADVENTURE  WITH   A  MERRY   ROGUE 

Here 

With  my  beer 
I  sit, 
While  golden  moments  flit. 

Alas! 

They  pass 
Unheeded  by ; 
And,  as  they  fly, 

I, 

Being  dry, 

Sit  idly  sipping  here 

My  beer. 

Oh,  finer  far 

Than  fame  or  riches  are 

The  graceful  smoke-wreaths  of  this  cigar  ! 

Why 

Should  I 

Weep,  wail,  or  sigh  ? 

What  if  luck  has  passed  me  by  ? 
What  if  my  hopes  are  dead, 
My  pleasures  fled  ? 

Have  I  not  still 

My  fill 

Of  right  good  cheer, — 
Cigars  and  beer  ? 

I  LIKE  inns,  and  I  like  old  ale,  and  all  the  old 
curious    glasses,    mugs  and  pewters  which 
were  so  dear  to  our  forefathers,  and  I  begin  this 
chapter  in    this   way   to  forestall   any  possible 
charges  of  heresy  that  my  narrative  may  call 
191 


192         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

forth.  I  would  almost  go  further,  and  say  that 
my  affection  for  such  things  is  wholly  a  private 
matter  concerning  only  myself,  or,  at  least,  no 
more  than  a  few  very  intimate  friends.  That,  I 
think,  is  how  sentimentalism  should  be  conducted. 
When  it  is  managed  otherwise,  when  it  becomes 
a  public  thing,  it  becomes  a  public  nuisance, 
besides  being  contemptible.  But,  as  I  have  gone 
so  far,  I  might  as  well  go  the  length  of  admitting 
that  I  am  addicted  to  the  habit  of  collecting  old 
drinking  vessels,  and  I  have  allowed  the  disease 
to  get  the  upper  hand.  I  cannot  pass  a  curio 
shop  in  which  willow-pattern  mugs,  tapering 
glasses  and  "  leather  bottels "  are  displayed 
without  a  burning  longing  to  possess  them.  I 
like  to  have  these  things  about  me,  not  merely  as 

ornaments  or  to  drink  from,  but  for Well, 

when  I  come  to  think  of  it,  I  cannot  quite  say ; 
there  is  not  sufficient  reason.  That  is  enough  to 
brand  me  an  incurable  curio-hunter.  Curios  and 
ancient  drinking  vessels  are  to  me  what  the  sea  is 
to  a  sailor.  It  is  a  passion  which  has  become 
interwoven  with  my  blood  and  fibre,  and  I  can 
never  again  wholly  break  loose  from  it. 

But  all  this  is  by  the  way  ;  the  point  is,  why 
do  I  commence  this  chapter  by  talking  about 
such  things? 

For  the  reason  that  in  this  chapter  I  am  going 


ADVENTURE  WITH  A  MERRY  ROGUE  198 

to  tell  of  a  singular  adventure  in  which  a  "  black 
jack  "  loomed  very  solidly. 

It  happened  at  Morcombe  Lake.  I  will  not 
write  of  this  place.  You  must  get  it  out  of  a 
guide-book,  for  the  village  is  not  a  thing  for  fine 
words;  it  stirred  me  in  no  way.  But  it  shall 
not  be  said  that  Morcombe  Lake  has  not  a  small 
share  of  fame,  for  in  this  village  is  produced  the 
famous  Dorset  Knob  Biscuit,  without  which  no 
Dorset  table  is  really  complete.  Mr  Moores,  who 
"  magics  "  butter,  milk  and  sugar  in  his  small 
bake-house  and  brings  forth  these  golden-brown 
"  Knobs,"  informs  me  that  his  family  has  been 
busy  sending  them  out  in  tins  for  over  a  hundred 
years. 

I  had  walked  from  Bridport,  passing  through 
Chideock,  with  its  venerable-looking  church 
beside  the  Castle  Inn,  and  coming  to  Morcombe, 
where  there  is  a  deep-eaved,  comfortable,  ram- 
shackle, go-as-you-please  kind  of  a  little  inn,  I 
could  hear  somebody  singing  inside.  It  was  a 
clear,  mellow  voice,  and  I  listened  to  the  cadences 
of  the  song  with  a  thrill  of  pleasure.  It  was  a 
humorous  trio,  and  the  lonely  singer  changed  his 
voice  for  each  verse  with  a  largeness  and  confi- 
dence in  his  vocal  powers  that  quite  carried  me 
away.  Indeed,  it  was  a  song  which  we  all  should 
know,  which  runs  ; 

N 


194         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

"  A  little  farm  well  tilled, 
A  little  barn  well  filled, 
A  little  wife  well  willed— 
Give  me,  give  me. 

A  larger  farm  well  tilled, 
A  bigger  house  well  filled, 
A  taller  wife  well  willed— 
Give  me,  give  me. 

I  like  the  farm  well  tilled, 
And  I  like  the  house  well  filled, 
But  no  wife  at  all  — 
Give  me,  give  me." 

Entering,  I  saw  one  of  the  kind  of  men  God 
loves.  He  was  of  middle  age,  very  honest  and 
simple  in  the  face,  good-humoured  and  cheerful. 
He  was  sitting  before  a  tall,  leather  black  jack 
—one  of  the  finest  specimens  of  the  old-fashioned 
leather  jugs  I  have  ever  seen— quaffing  his  morn- 
ing ale  from  it.  He  paused  from  his  song  and 
lifted  his  wide  straw  hat  in  a  grandiloquent  way. 

"  Good  marning,  sir  !  Fine  marning's  marn- 
ing !  Tez  mortel  'ot  ta-day,"  he  said,  in  a  mellow 
voice,  and  he  looked  up  at  me  with  large,  china- 
blue  eyes.  I  passed  the  time  of  day  with  him, 
but  the  fine  leathern  flagon  had  already  claimed 
all  my  attention  ;  I  had  no  eyes  for  anything  else 
at  the  moment.  I  dealt  hotly  with  speculations 
over  the  ownership  of  the  flagon.  Did  it  belong 
to  the  rustic  or  the  innkeeper?  Did  they  know 


The  Lonely  Singer 


ADVENTURE  WITH  A  MERRY  ROGUE  197 

its  value  ?  This  and  a  hundred  other  thoughts 
flashed  through  my  mind.  As  I  stood  there  I 
dwelt  avariciously  upon  thought  of  possession. 
I  said  to  myself :  "I  must  have  that  flagon.  I 
will  buy.  Beg  it.  Steal  it,  if  necessary."  The 
desire  to  possess  it  consumed  my  soul. 

"  Wantee  plaize  to  take  a  seat  ?  The  cider  here 
be  a  prime  sort,  I  shuree !  "  said  the  rustic, 
breaking  in  upon  my  thoughts.  He  spoke  very 
slowly  and,  as  I  have  said,  had  a  nice  mellow 
voice,  and  he  did  what  only  honest  men  do— 
looked  straight  at  me  when  he  spoke. 

"  Surely,"  I  said,  and  sat  down  beside  him. 
"  Pray  excuse  me,"  I  continued,  waving  my 
hand  towards  the  leather  jack,  "  but  that  is  a 
remarkable  old  drinking  vessel." 

"  Thickee  there  is  the  ownly  wan  I  ever  see 
like  it,"  said  he,  holding  it  up  and  looking  at  it 
with  admiration.  "  Yes,  sir,  it  be  a  brave  good 
mug,  and  1  have  taken  my  cider  and  ale  out  of 
he  for  twenty  year.  It's  just  a  fancy  of  mine  to 
bring  it  along  with  me  when  I  drink.  I  tellee 
that  mug  has  been  with  my  folk  for  two  hundred 
years.  Parson  says  it  is  just  a  '  miracle  '  of  an 
old  thing." 

"  Aha  !  "  said  I  to  myself,  "  the  parson  is  after 

it  too." 

"They  tell  me,"  he   said,  "that  it  may  be 


198          THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

worth  a  pound  or  two.  Well,  well !  It  is  an 
old  friend,  and  I  should  be  loath  to  part  with  the 
cheel,  but " 

"  But,"  I  repeated  eagerly. 

"  But,"  he  continued,  "  things  have  been  cruel 
bad  with  me  o'  late,  and  I  have  thought,  what- 
ever is  the  good  o'  keeping  it  when  like  'miff  we 
can  sell  it  for  a  pound  or  so  and  buy  the  chillern 
a  few  clothes  against  the  winter." 

"  True,  true  !  "  I  said,  trying  to  keep  my  ex- 
citement undermost.  "  But  you  would  only  get 
a  few  shillings  for  it,  I  am  afraid.  Such  things 
have  no  market  value." 

"No  market  value?"  he  answered.  "Well, 
I  suppose  I  dunnow  much  't-al-'bout-et !  " 

He  mused  for  a  few  moments.  I  narrowly 
watched  him  out  of  half-closed  eyes— "^  Oh,  yes ; 
I  was  playing  the  old  grey  wolf,  sure  enough  " 
—and  said,  very  carelessly:  "I  should  hate 
drinking  my  ale  out  of  a  '  leather  bottel. '  They 
may  look  picturesque,  but  I  am  certain  the  beer 
would  taste  vile.  I  have  no  sympathy  with  the 
enthusiast  who  sang  : 

"  '  And  I  wish  in  heaven  his  soul  may  dwell 
That  first  devised  the  leather  bottel.' 

However,  I  would  not  mind  giving  you  a  few 
shillings  for  it." 


ADVENTURE  WITH  A  MERRY  ROGUE    199 

I  happened  to  glance  up  as  I  said  this.  He  sat 
there  looking  at  me  with  a  troubled  expression 
in  his  blue  eyes. 

He  then  said  a  number  of  things  in  broad 
Dorset,  and  the  "  tellees  "  and  "  thickees  "  and 
"dallees"  became  unintelligible,  but  he  meant 
that  I  could  but  be  joking  when  I  said  "  a  few 
shillings:" 

44  Well,  I  won't  disturb  your  peace  of  mind  any 
more,"  I  said.  44  We  will  let  the  matter  drop." 

Then  he  stepped  up  close  to  me,  put  the  black 
jack  in  my  hand,  and  said,  with  an  appealing  note 
in  his  voice :  "  Two  hundred  years  in  my  family, 
maister.  Just  say  what  you've  a-mind  to  give 
me ;  only  let  it  be  a  fair  price.  I  would  not  be 
so  anxious  to  sell  it,  but  my  rent  is  a  bit  behind, 
and  I  shall  have  to  sleep  with  Miss  Green — 

44  Sleep  with  Miss  Green  ?  "  I  gasped,  somewhat 
shocked. 

44  Sleep  under  the  hedge,  then,"  he  continued, 
making  the  expression  clear  to  me.  "  Now,  you 
see  the  fix  I'm  in,  maister." 

Then  I  was  ashamed.  Deep  shame  covered 
me,  and  I  had  a  great  revulsion  of  feeling.  How 
could  I  be  so  niggardly  as  to  beat  down  this  poor 
fellow's  price?  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  his 
only  possession  of  any  value  at  all.  I  turned  the 
jack  over  in  my  hands.  It  was  strong  and  black 


200         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

and  very  highly  polished  with  age  —and  the  curves 
and  proportions  of  it  were  exactly  satisfying  to 
the  eye  that  looked  upon  it.  It  was  a  benediction 
of  a  flagon.  .  .  . 

I  held  it  up,  and  said,  "  How  much  ?  " 

"  Aw !  daily-buttons !  Take  it  for  two  pounds," 
he  said,  "  you  nidden  begridge  me  that." 

And  he  added,  in  passing,  that  two  pounds 
made  it  a  kind  of  gift  to  me— just  a  token  to 
signify  it  had  changed  hands  :  it  was  an  act  of 
pure  charity  on  his  part. 

"Then,"  I  said,  "thirty  shillings,"  and  he 
waved  his  hand  about  genially,  and  remarked 
that  it  "  twidden  "  be  worth  his  while  to  stretch 
out  his  hand  for  such  a  paltry  sum. 

So  then  I  pulled  out  thirty  shillings,  and  he 
pushed  the  flagon  over  to  me  and  took  the  money. 
Thus  the  bargain  was  struck. 

So  this  being  settled,  and  I  eager  for  a  drink  of 
ale,  called  the  innkeeper,  who  was  in  another 
room.  Beer  was  brought  and  my  friend  insisted 
on  paying  for  it. 

I  asked  him  about  his  wife  and  children.  But 
I  could  get  very  little  from  him,  and  that  little  in 
a  low  voice.  I  felt  sorry  for  him,  for  I  understood 
that  parting  with  his  flagon  had  rather  upset  him. 
He  seemed  as  different  as  one  could  imagine 
from  the  singer  I  had  seen  when  I  entered.  He 


ADVENTURE  WITH  A  MERRY  ROGUE  201 

told  me  that  his  was  a  very  old  family  in  this 
place,  and  his  name  was  Ralph  Copplestone.  He 
also  quoted  the  following  adage  to  strengthen  his 
statement  :— 

"  Crocker,  Cruwys  and  Copplestone, 
When  the  Conqueror  came  were  all  at  home." 

Before  he  left  me,  however,  he  had  recovered 
his  cheerfulness.  He  set  off  down  the  road,  and 
as  he  passed  he  began  singing  : 

"Dorset  gives  us  butter  and  cheese, 

Devonshire  gives  us  cream, 
Zummerzet  zyder's  zure  to  please 

And  set  your  hearts  a-dream  ; 
Cornwall,  from  her  inmost  soul, 

Brings  tin  for  the  use  of  man, 
And  the  four  of  'em  breed  the  prettiest  girls— 

So  damme,  beat  that  if  you  can !  " 

Finally  his  voice,  still  singing,  died  away  in 
the  distance.  I  sat  before  the  flagon  with  a  feel- 
ing of  wonder,  not  unmixed  with  sadness.  The 
fresh  breeze  dropped,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the 
little  inn  parlour  grew  dark  and  grey.  He  was 
a  strange  fellow  ! 

It  was  not  till  the  next  day,  in  the  late  after- 
noon, when  the  air  was  already  full  of  the  golden 
dust  that  comes  before  the  fall  of  the  evening, 
that  I  came  down  Broad  Street  into  Lyme  Regis. 
In  passing,  I  was  attracted  by  a  little  curiosity 


202         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DOESET 

shop.  The  dusty  window  was  full  of  all  sorts  of 
things— red-heeled  slippers,  old  bits  of  brass, 
quaint,  twisted  candlesticks,  blue  enamel  snuff- 
boxes, jewellery— value  and  rubbish  being  mixed 
in  confusion  together.  And  there  right  in  the 
fore-front  was  an  exact  counterpart  of  my  black 
jack  !  It  was  truly  an  amazing  coincidence  !  I 
looked  into  the  doorway,  and  saw  the  owner  of 
the  shop,  a  very  old  gentleman.  His  face  was  a 
network  of  wrinkles,  which  time  so  pleasantly 
writes  on  some  old  faces  that  they  possess  a 
sweetness  which  even  youth  lacks.  I  made  up 
my  mind  to  seek  information  from  him  about  the 
flagon.  He  was  examining  a  piece  of  china  with 
a  magnifying-glass  when  I  entered. 

"  Good  evening — good  evening  !  "  he  said, 
putting  down  the  glass,  and  looking  up  at  me 
with  a  smile.  "  What  can  I  show  you,  sir  ?  " 

The  old  man  drew  in  his  wrinkled  lips 
expectingly. 

"  The  odd  black  jack  in  your  window,"  I  said 
boldly. 

The  old  man  went  to  a  corner  of  the  window, 
and  after  much  fumbling  produced  the  black  jack, 
which  he  set  upon  the  counter.  As  I  examined 
it  he  watched  me  in  silence  from  beneath  his  pent- 
house brows.  It  was,  indeed,  a  facsimile  of  the 
one  I  had  purchased  from  the  rustic. 


Tfie  River  Buddie,  Lyme  Recjis 


ADVENTURE  WITH  A  MERRY  ROGUE   205 

"  It  is  not  really  antique.  It  is  a  very  clever 
imitation,  not  more  than  a  few  months  old,"  came 
the  old  man's  voice.  He  paused,  the  smile  still 
lighting  his  face.  "  A  genuine  specimen  like  this 
one  is  not  to  be  found  anywhere — outside  the 
museums."  He  lifted  his  arm  with  a  peculiar 
gesture  that  seemed  to  take  in  the  whole  world. 

Outwardly  I  remained  calm,  swinging  my  foot 
nonchalantly  against  the  wooden  panel  of  his 
counter.  If  I  had  burst  out  laughing  that 
moment  I  cannot  think  what  the  old  curio-dealer 
would  have  thought,  but  it  was  with  difficulty 
that  I  restrained  myself  from  doing  so.  Little 
did  he  know  that  I  had  just  picked  up  a  genuine 
black  jack  for  a  mere  song !  Then  I  told  him, 
with  gusto,  my  adventure  with  the  rustic  at  the 
inn. 

Suddenly  he  broke  out : 

"  What  was  his  name  ?  " 

"Copplestone— Ralph  Copplestone,"  I  replied. 

"Why,  he's  the  very  rogue  that  sold  me 
this  one,"  said  the  old  man,  shaking  his  simple 
head. 

"  Is  that  possible  ?  "  I  said,  and  I  jumped  down 
from  the  counter  where  I  had  perched  myself. 
The  strangest  sensation  came  over  me.  I  thought 
of  the  honest,  open  face  and  the  innocent  blue 
eyes  of  my  friend  the  tavern-haunter. 


206          THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

The  curio-dealer  smiled  quietly,  sadly. 

"  Yes,  he  imposed  upon  me,  too.  He  is  a  very 
clever  rogue.  A  harness-maker  by  trade,  and  all 
his  people  before  him  for  three  hundred  years  have 
been  of  the  same  calling.  So  you  see  the  secret 
of  making  a  black  jack  has  been  handed  down 
from  father  to  son.  It  is  one  of  the  traditions  of 
his  family ;  a  knowledge  which  is  mingled  with 
his  blood  and  fibre,  so  to  speak.  Such  skill  is 
older  than  five  thousand  years.  He  has  the  spirit 
of  the  artist— but  the  soul  of  the  rogue." 

"  Why,"  I  said,  "  then  if  he  is  a  rogue,  then  I'm 
a  rogue  too,  for  I  knew  I  was  paying  him  a  paltry 
sum  for  an  article  I  thought  to  be  worth  ten 
pounds  —perhaps  twenty. ' ' 

So  I  laughed,  and  I've  been  laughing  gloriously 
ever  since — at  myself,  at  the  merry  rogue  in  the 
inn,  at  the  silly  old  hypocritical  world. 

As  I  passed  out  of  the  dim  old  shop  and  walked 
down  to  the  sea  it  came  over  me,  with  a  sudden 
feeling  of  satisfaction  in  my  soul,  that  the  sun 
shone  on  Ralph  Copplestone  just  as  joyfully  as  it 
did  on  me,  that  the  good  God  had  endowed  him 
with  strong  arms  and  a  mighty  voice  for  songs. 

"  After  all,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  we  are  all  rogues 
if  we  are  only  scratched  deep  enough." 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE   DEVON   AND   DORSET   BORDERLAND 

"  How  far  is  it  to  Babylon? " 
Ah,  far  enough,  my  dear, 
Far,  far  enough  from  here — 
Yet  you  have  farther  gone  ! 
"Can  I  get  there  by  candlelight?" 
So  goes  the  old  refrain. 
I  do  not  know — perchance  you  might — 
But  only,  children,  hear  it  right, 
Ah,  never  to  return  again  ! 
The  eternal  dawn,  beyond  a  doubt, 
Shall  break  on  hill  and  plain, 
And  put  all  stars  and  candles  out, 
Ere  we  be  young  again. 

"  R.  L.  8." 

THE  irregular  and  old-fashioned  little  town 
of  Lyme  Regis — "  so  crooked's  a  ram's 
horn,"  as  the  native  would  say— is  situated  in  a 
most  romantic  position  at  the  foot  of  the  hills, 
being  built  in  the  hollow  and  on  the  slopes  of  a 
deep  combe,  through  which  flows  the  small  stream 
of  the  Lym  to  the  sea.  It  is  seated  on  a  grand 
coast,  which  rises  to  the  east  in  the  blackest 
precipices  and  west  in  broken  crags  thickly 
mantled  with  wood.  As  a  port  it  is  most  ancient, 
having  furnished  ships  to  Edward  III.  during  his 
siege  of  Calais. 

Lyme,  in  its  day,  has  seen  a  good  many  stirring 
207 


208         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

events.  In  the  reigns  of  Henry  IV.  and  V.  it  was 
twice  plundered  and  burned  by  the  French ;  and 
in  that  of  Richard  II.  nearly  swept  from  the  earth 
by  a  violent  gale.  During  the  Rebellion  it  suc- 
cessfully withstood  a  siege  which  was  one  of  the 
most  important  of  the  time.  In  1644  Prince 
Maurice  invested  it,  established  his  headquarters 
at  Old  Colway  and  Hay  House,  and  his  troops 
along  the  neighbouring  hill.  Day  after  day  the 
assault  continued,  more  than  once  by  storming 
parties  ;  but  the  gallant  governor,  Colonel  Ceeley, 
assisted  by  Blake,  afterwards  so  famous  as  an 
admiral,  most  courageously  repulsed  every  attack, 
and  after  a  siege  of  nearly  seven  weeks  was 
relieved  by  the  approach  of  the  Earl  of  Essex. 
In  1685  the  town  was  again  enlivened  by  the 
bustle  of  arms,  when,  in  the  month  of  June,  the 
Duke  of  Monmouth  here  landed,  with  about 
eighty  companions,  after  running  the  gauntlet 
through  a  storm  and  a  fleet  of  English  cruisers 
in  his  passage  from  Amsterdam.  As  he  reached 
the  sandy  shore  he  fell  upon  his  knees  and  uttered 
a  thanksgiving  for  his  preservation.  He  re- 
mained here  four  days,  at  the  George  Inn,  when, 
having  collected  about  two  thousand  horse  and 
foot,  he  set  forward  on  his  disastrous  expedition. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Lyme  Regis  has 
failed  to  prove  itself  anything  like  a  popular 


DEVON  AND  DORSET  BORDERLAND     209 

watering-place;  yet  it  has  very  good  bathing, 
with  neither  currents  nor  hollows,  and  has  the 
most  picturesque  front  in  Dorset.  The  fine 
scenery  should  tempt  the  holiday-maker  to  suffer 
the  somewhat  enclosed  situation,  which  makes  the 
place  very  close  during  the  hot  summer  days.  It 
is  in  winter  that  Lyme  should  be  popular,  for  then 
it  can  boast  a  remarkably  genial  climate. 

The  quaint  old  stone  pier,  called  the  Cobb,  is  the 
real  lion  of  Lyme,  and  is  the  source  of  much  satis- 
faction to  the  stout  hearts  of  the  town.  The 
Cobb,  "  the  oldest  arnshuntest  bit  o'  stone- work 
in  the  land,  a  thousand  years  old— and  good  for 
another  thousand,  I  tellee,"  as  described  to  the 
present  writer  by  a  rustic,  was  probably  first 
constructed  in  the  reign  of  Edward  I.  It  has  been 
frequently  washed  away,  and  restored  at  a  great 
price,  and  was  finally  renewed  and  strengthened 
in  1825-1826.  It  is  a  semicircular  structure,  of 
great  strength,  the  thick  outer  wall  rising  high 
above  the  roadway,  so  as  to  protect  it  from  the 
wind  and  sea. 

At  Lyme  an  inn  received  me  :  a  room  full  of 
fishermen  and  agricultural  workers,  a  smell  of 
supper  preparing,  and  much  drinking  of  cider.  It 
was  the  New  Inn,  and  I  was  told  that  this  room 
was  only  the  tap-room  and  not  usually  used  by 
visitors.  I  found  that  one  wing  of  the  old 


210         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

building  had  been  specially  fitted  for  travellers, 
and  I  will  gladly  name  it  to  all  my  readers  who 
are  satisfied  with  an  old-fashioned  comfort,  a 
good  bed  and  good  fare. 

After  supper  I  bought  a  packet  of  sailor's  shag, 
and  went  out  smoking  into  the  chief  street.  A 
few  steps  took  me  to  the  Cobb,  and  I  leaned  over 
the  low  wall  and  contemplated  the  glorious  green 
sea,  tumbling  and  gurgling  below  me.  I  always 
think  that  the  union  of  mighty  stone  slabs  and  the 
sea  is  most  satisfying  to  look  upon — there  is  some- 
thing endlessly  good  and  noble  about  such  a  thing. 
I  think  a  building  of  hewn  stone  when  it  dips  into 
the  water  should  act  as  a  sedative  to  the  mind, 
should  teach  one  to  become  calm,  slow  and  strong ; 
to  deal  generously  in  rectitudes  and  essentials. 

It  was  late  in  August,  and  the  mellow  chimes  of 
the  parish  church  had  just  boomed  eight  o'clock. 
The  great  orange  moon  hung  over  the  bay,  and 
the  night  came  creeping  over  the  rich  yellow  sand 
which  crowns  the  Golden  Cap.  Then  the  cliffs 
merged  into  a  fainter  confusion.  Bats  came  out 
and  flitted  about  the  old  houses  by  the  Buddie 
river,  and  the  night  became  the  natural  haunt 
of  restless  spirits.  A  candle  flickering  behind 
a  leaded  casement  brought  back  suddenly  the 
memory  of  a  home  long  passed  away  and  what- 
ever blessings  belong  to  my  childhood.  And 


DEVON  AND  DORSET  BORDERLAND    211 

all  of  a  sudden  that  inexplicable  heart-hunger 
for  the  place  of  my  birth  gripped  me,  and 
Youth  (whatever  Youth  may  be),  with  its  sights, 
its  undefinable,  insistent  spell,  came  back  to  me 
in  one  flash— Youth  came  to  me  from  the  old 
houses  on  the  sea-wall,  borne  with  the  misty 
saltness  of  the  sea  air.  Go  away ;  travel  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  land,  visit  a  hundred 
cities,  encounter  a  hundred  new  experiences, 
and  form  a  hundred  conflicting  impressions  of 
stranger  scenes  and  places;  go  where  you  will, 
and  do  what  you  will ;  one  day  you  will  have 
seen  and  done  enough,  and  you  will  find  your 
thoughts  turned  again  to  the  haunts  of  Youth. 

At  the  sight  of  those  ruffianly  looking  old  dwell- 
ings by  the  riverside  my  memory  was  carried 
back  to  another  small  seaport  town  where,  long 
enough  ago,  I  played  at  smuggling.  Are  we  not 
all  haunted  by  certain  landscapes  which  come 
back  unbidden,  not  as  topographical  facts,  but  as 
vestures  of  the  soul?  Their  enchantment  is  in 
our  blood,  and  their  meaning  uncommunicable. 

Here,  where  one  can  smell  the  smell  of  venerable 
wooden  fishing  boats  and  tar,  there  is  a  suggestion 
of  the  good  old  smuggling  days.  There  is  a  hint 
of  rum,  brass-bound  sea-chests,  trap-doors  and 
deep  mouldy  cellars  about  the  Buddie  River 
houses,  and  the  people  who  inhabit  them  are  of 


212         THOMAS  HARDY  S  DORSET 

very  settled  habits,  and  the  inconveniences  to 
which  they  have  been  accustomed  seem  to  them 
preferable  to  conveniences  with  which  they  are 
unfamiliar.  To  this  day,  therefore,  they  empty 
slops  out  of  the  windows,  burn  candles,  wind 
up  their  pot-bellied  watches  with  large  keys, 
and  attain  ripe  old  age.  This  curious  quarter  of 
Lyme  Regis  was  once  a  smugglers'  retreat  and 
a  favourite  spot  for  their  operations.  A  stranger 
visiting  the  banks  of  the  Buddie  could  not  fail 
to  be  struck  with  the  curiously  formed  streets, 
alleys,  and  passages  thereabouts,  and  if  he  secured 
the  good  offices  of  a  native  to  pilot  him  through 
the  mazes  he  would  be  still  further  astonished 
at  their  intricacy.  The  houses  are  connected 
in  the  most  mysterious  manner,  whether  from 
design  or  accident,  or  whether  to  meet  the 
exigencies  of  the  smuggling  trade,  and  for  the 
more  readily  disposing  of  the  kegs  of  spirits,  and 
bales  of  other  excisable  goods,  it  is  impossible  to 
say.  The  most  reasonable  conclusion  to  arrive 
at  is  that  the  latter  was  the  case. 

The  curious  name  of  Cobb  has  given  rise  to  much 
discussion.  Murray's  Handbook  to  Dorset  (1859) 
puts  forward  the  theory  that  it  is  of  British  origin, 
and  calls  attention  to  a  barrow- crowned  knoll 
above  Warminster  called  Cophead,  and  a  long 
embankment  on  the  race-course  at  Chester,  which 


DEVON  AND  DORSET  BORDERLAND     213 

protects  it  from  the  River  Dee,  which  has  been 
known  from  time  immemorial  as  the  Cop.  The 
length  of  the  Cobb  is  870  feet,  and  height  above 
the  sea-level  16  feet.  It  combines  in  one  stone 
causeway  the  duties  of  breakwater,  double 
promenade  and  quay.  The  projecting  stone 
steps,  which  form  one  of  the  oldest  parts  of 
the  wall,  are  known  as  Granny's  Teeth,  and  are 
described  by  Jane  Austen  in  Persuasion.  The 
beach  to  the  west  of  the  Cobb  is  known  as 
Monmouth's  Beach.  The  Duke  landed  about  a 
hundred  yards  west  of  the  wall.  A  local  tradition 
states  that  when  the  late  Lord  Tennyson  visited 
the  town  one  of  his  friends  was  anxious  to  point 
out  the  spot  where  Monmouth  landed,  but  the 
great  man  impatiently  exclaimed  :  "  Don't  talk 
to  me  of  Monmouth,  but  show  me  the  place  where 
Louisa  Musgrove  fell !  " 

The  bridge  arch  in  Bridge  Street  is  considered 
to  be  of  an  age  second  only  to  that  of  the  Parish 
Church,  and  is  well  worthy  of  inspection.  The 
Buddie  Bridge  consists  of  one  arch  of  large  span, 
thought  to  have  been  built  in  the  fourteenth 
century,  when  the  bed  of  the  Lym,  or  Buddie,  was 
excavated  to  an  extra  depth  of  eight  feet.  An 
ancient  Pointed  arch  with  dog-tooth  moulding 
has  recently  been  unearthed  in  the  basement  of  a 
house  abutting  on  the  bridge.  The  arch  is  below 


214         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

the  level  of  the  roadway,  and  it  no  doubt  formed 
part  of  a  bridge  of  several  arches  built  in  the 
twelfth  century.  It  rises  from  about  two  feet 
below  the  ground-floor  cellar  of  this  house.  The 
arch  has  been  seen  by  the  Rev.  C.  W.  Dicker,  of 
the  Dorset  Field  Club,  who  sent  to  the  editor  of 
The  Lyme  Regis  Mirror  the  following  letter  :  — 

DEAR  SIR,— I  have  just  received  a  copy  of 
last  week's  Mirror,  containing  an  account  of  the 
very  interesting  archway  under  Bridge  Street, 
which  I  was  kindly  invited  to  inspect.  As  far 
as  I  can  judge  from  the  result  of  my  one  oppor- 
tunity of  examining  it,  the  evidence  points  to  the 
assumption  that  Bridge  Street  formerly  crossed 
the  Buddie  upon  a  bridge  of  several  arches,  con- 
structed in  the  twelfth  century,  and  that  the 
archway  in  question  was  probably  the  third  from 
west  to  east.  The  street  at  this  point  is  (or  was) 
obviously  supported  upon  a  masonry  substruc- 
ture, upon  which  the  houses  abut.  The  masonry  of 
the  newly  found  arch  is  typical  of  the  middle  of 
the  twelfth  century,  at  which  time  the  manor  was 
chiefly  in  the  hands  of  Roger  of  Caen,  Bishop  of 
Sarum  and  Abbot  of  Sherborne,  a  great  builder, 
much  of  whose  work  is  still  to  be  found  in  Dorset. 
The  archway  clearly  was  built  to  support  the 
roadway ;  and  as  its  alignment  is  exactly  that  of 


DEVON  AND  DORSET  BORDERLAND     215 

the  larger  archway  (apparently  of  the  fourteenth 
century),  under  which  the  river  now  runs,  there 
seems  little  room  for  doubt  as  to  its  origin.  Yours 
faithfully, 

C.  W.  H.  DICKER, 

Vice-President  and  Hon.  Editor 
Dorset  Field  Club. 

PYDELTBENTHIDE  VICARAGE, 
DORCHESTER. 

The  Town  Hall,  at  the  farther  end  of  Bridge 
Street,  was  rebuilt  on  the  site  of  the  old  Guildhall. 
The  iron-cased  door,  that  once  led  to  the  men's 
"  lock-up,"  and  the  grating  of  the  women's  prison, 
have  been  fixed  against  the  north  front  wall. 
This  wall  is  pierced  by  two  arches,  with  a  doorway 
to  the  Old  Market,  over  the  gateway  of  which  is  a 
carved  projecting  window.  Here  are  the  ancient 
parish  stocks,  removed  from  the  church.  At  the 
farther  end,  facing  Church  Street,  a  wide  gable 
stands  out,  lighted  by  an  old  but  plainer  window. 
In  the  lower  part  is  the  passage  through  to  the 
Gun  Cliff,  with  a  flight  of  steps  in  the  wall,  leading 
down  to  the  beach.  From  Church  Street  there  is 
an  easy  approach  to  the  Drill  Hall,  which  was 
opened  in  1894.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street,  and  directly  facing  Long  Entry,  there  is 
"  Tudor  House,"  a  large  old  house  possessing  much 
fine  oak  panelling  and  carving.  The  interest 


216         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

of  Tudor  House  is  twofold,  for  it  is  associ- 
ated with  the  "Father  of  English  Literature," 
Henry  Fielding,  author  of  Tom  Jones.  Here 
lived  Sarah  Andrew,  a  rich  heiress,  when  Fielding 
became  wildly  enamoured  of  her.  This  love  affair 
was  opposed  by  Andrew  Tucker,  who  was  Sarah's 
guardian,  but  Fielding  persisted  in  his  suit  with 
such  energy  that  Tucker  had  to  appeal  to  the 
Mayor  of  Lyme  to  be  protected  from  the  violence 
of  Fielding  and  his  men.  This  is  recorded  in  the 
town  journals. 

Fielding  lost  the  rich  heiress,  but  immortalised 
her  memory  in  the  supremely  beautiful  character 
of  Sophia,  in  Tom  Jones. 

The  Parish  Church,  dedicated  to  St  Michael, 
contains  some  interesting  relics.  A  prominent 
feature  is  the  carved  Jacobean  pulpit  and  sounding- 
board,  bearing  in  capitals  the  inscription  :  "  TO 
GOD'S  GLORY  RICHARD  HARVEY  MERCER 
AND  MERCHANT  ADVENTURER  THIS 
ANNO,  1613."  It  was  removed  from  a  column 
near  the  south  door  and  entrance  to  the  vestry 
during  the  renovation  of  the  church  by  Dr 
Hodges,  in  1833. 

The  building  dates  from  the  fifteenth  century, 
though  it  is  clear  from  town  records  that  a  church 
stood  near  or  on  the  spot  in  1298,  and  there  are 
remains  of  a  Norman  arch  and  pillar  in  the  west 


DEVON  AND  DORSET  BORDERLAND     217 

porch.  Note  the  two  parish  chests,  one  of 
Jacobean  workmanship.  The  following  interest- 
ing inscriptions  are  from  six  of  the  bells  which 
were  set  up  in  1770  : — 

1.  "  O  Fair  Britannia  Hail."    T.B.  f.,  1770. 

2.  "  Harmony  in  sound  and  sentiment"    T.B.  1770. 

3.  "O  be  joyful  in  the  Lord  all  ye  lands."    T.B.  f., 

1770. 

4.  Re-cast  in  1843.    Thomas  Mears,  founder,  London. 

Fredk.  Parry  Hodges,  vicar.  Robert  Hillman, 
Mayor.  John  Church  and  George  Roberts, 
churchwardens. 

5.  "  O  sea  spare  me."    This  peal  of  bells  was  erected 

partly  by  rate  and  part  by  subscription  in  the 
year  1770. 

6.  " Pro  Religione,  pro  Patria,  pro  Libertate"    1770. 

Mr  Tuff  and  Mr  Tucker,  C.  W.  Thomas  Bilbie, 
Fecit. 

The  curfew  is  still  rung  at  eight  o'clock  at 
Lyme  Regis. 

Fuller  details  of  the  history  of  the  church  and 
town  will  be  found  in  a  very  comprehensive  little 
History  of  Lyme  Regis,  by  Cameron,  which  is 
published  by  Mr  Dunster  at  "  The  Library  "  in 
Broad  Street. 

Broad  Street,  leading  downwards  from  the 
station  to  the  sea,  is  the  main  thoroughfare,  and 
the  principal  business  part  of  the  town.  Half-way 
up  the  street  on  the  eastern  side  is  a  small  passage 
leading  to  an  ancient  forge.  It  is  scarcely  to  be 


218          THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

noticed  unless  one  is  expressly  seeking  for  it,  but 
once  up  the  narrow  court  there  it  is,  with  its  open 
doorway  all  red  inside  like  a  wizard's  cave,  with 
the  hammers  ringing  on  the  anvil,  and  the  sparks 
showering  out  of  the  big  flue.  Here  Vulcan  has 
toiled,  moiled  and,  let  us  hope,  aled  for  five 
hundred  years  without  a  break,  and  here,  in  spite 
of  cheap  machinery,  Mr  Govier,  the  master  smith 
of  Lyme  Regis,  still  seems  to  enjoy  a  regular  and 
ready  custom.  The  forge  has  been  in  Mr  Govier's 
family  for  three  hundred  years,  and  it  has  a  great 
weather-beaten  wooden-and-tile  roof,  which  is  all 
but  on  the  verge  of  collapse.  A  long  sweep  of  old 
oak  wood  controls  the  bellows,  and  as  you  look  in 
you  will  see  the  hand  of  Govier  himself  is  on  the 
bellows  handle.  He  draws  it  down  and  lets  it  up 
again  with  the  peculiar  rhythmic  motion  of  long 
experience,  heaping  up  his  fire  with  a  cunning 
little  iron  rake,  singing  a  most  doleful  song  to 
himself  all  about  "  shooting  his  true  love  at  the 
setting  of  the  sun."  But  you  must  not  think  the 
master  smith  is  a  gloomy  man,  for  this  song  (and 
other  still  more  pathetic  ones)  is  just  a  tune  of 
acquiescence  to  his  labours— a  song  in  sympathy 
with  the  roar  of  the  bellows  and  the  ascending 
sparks  of  his  fire. 

"  Come  in,  come  in,"  he  said,  when  I  told  him 
I  had  come  to  pay  my  respects  to  him. 


218 


DEVON  AND  DORSET  BORDERLAND     219 

He  turned  from  his  forge,  set  his  hands  on  his 
hips  and  looked  at  me  a  moment.  Then  I  realised 
why  McNeill  Whistler  spent  so  much  of  his  time 
in  this  forge  making  sketches  of  the  smith.  He 
looked  like  Vulcan's  very  brother,  his  face  sun- 
burnt and  forge-burnt  to  wheat-colour,  his  eyes 
blue  as  cornflowers,  and  his  hair  black  and  crisp, 
and  everywhere  about  him  the  atmosphere  of  the 
blacksmith.  There  are  all  kinds  of  interesting 
things  in  the  old  forge,  from  Roman  horseshoes 
to  plates  for  race-horses,  and  a  pair  of  old  beam- 
scales  dated  1560.  These  scales  have  been 
hanging  up  as  far  back  as  Govier  and  his  father 
before  him  could  remember.  Besides  having  the 
knowledge  of  a  craftsman,  Govier  is  a  singer  of 
old  songs. 

"  That  song  you  were  singing  when  I  came  in  ?  " 
I  asked.  "I  know  it  as  well  as  anyone,  but 
somehow  it  has  escaped  me." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  master  smith.  "  Well,  well ! 
It  is  years  ago  now  that  I  first  heard  it,  when  the 
ships  came  inside  our  walls  with  coal  and  took 
away  stone.  We  rarely  see  a  ship  in  our  walls 
now,  but  when  I  was  a  boy  my  father  and  I 
frequently  went  down  to  the  quay  to  repair 
ironwork  aboard  the  old  sailing  boats.  Those  old 
Devon  sailors  were  the  fellows  for  songs.  Upon 
my  soul,  I  believe  sailors  no  longer  sing  as  they 


220         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

once  did.  I  find  a  great  difference  between  the 
old-fashioned  chanty  man  and  the  modern  seaman 
who  never  sings  at  his  work.  The  man  who  sings 
loudly  and  clearly  is  in  good  health,  prompt,  and 
swift  to  the  point,  and  his  heart  is  as  big  as 
parson's  barn.  The  silent  sullen  fellow  may  have 
these  qualities — he  may  have  'em,  I  say;  but 
then  the  chap  who  sings  is  the  happier  man." 

"  But  there  are  some  miserable  fellows  who 
reckon  to  be  very  happy,"  I  said. 

At  this  Govier  gave  a  shrug  of  his  ox-like 
shoulders,  and  waved  away  all  such  sorry 
triflers. 

"  There  are  such  people,"  said  he ;  "  but  they 
are  not  entertaining.  However,  you  want  to  get 
the  hang  of  that  song,  and  though  I  cannot 
remember  the  exact  words  I  have  the  rhythm 
of  it  in  my  head  right  enough,  and  I  think  it 
runs  like  this  : 

"'Come  all  you  young  fellows  that  carry  a  gun, 
Beware  of  late  shooting  when  daylight  is  done  ; 
For  'tis  little  you  reckon  what  hazards  you  run, 
I  shot  my  true  love  at  the  setting  of  the  sun. 
In  a  shower  of  rain,  as  my  darling  did  hie 
All  under  the  bushes  to  keep  herself  dry, 
With  her  head  in  her  apron,  I  thought  her  a 

swan, 

And  I  shot  my  true  love  at  the  setting  of  the 
sun. 


DEVON  AND  DORSET  BORDERLAND     221 

In  the  night   the  fair   maid   as   a   white    swan 

appears  : 
She  says,  O  my  true  love,  quick,  dry  up  your 

tears, 

I  freely  forgive  you,  I  have  Paradise  won ; 
I  was  shot  by  my  true  love  at  the  setting  of  the 

sun.' 

"  You  should  have  heard  that  song  as  I  heard 
it  on  board  an  old-time  schooner,  when  the  ship's 
company  all  banged  and  roared  heartily,  and 
shouted  in  enormous  voices.  When  they  came 
to  '  I  was  shot  by  my  true  love '  the  company 
would  all  join  together  in  a  great  moan,  and  wag 
their  heads  in  a  most  melancholy  way.  But 
there  are  no  songs  like  that  now.  All  this  com- 
plicated machinery  in  ships  has  darkened  men's 
minds  and  shut  out  the  old  songs." 

A  good  many  very  interesting  places  may  be 
cleared  up  by  just  trespassing  a  few  miles  into 
Devon  when  we  leave  Lyme  Regis,  and  taking 
the  main  road  to  Axminster,  a  parish  and  market 
town  on  the  River  Axe.  St  Mary's  Church  is 
of  ancient  origin,  and  contains  some  objects  of 
antiquarian  interest.  The  other  churches  are 
modern.  South  of  the  town  are  the  ruins  of 
Newenham  Abbey;  its  history  is  interesting. 
Seven  miles  north,  Ford  Abbey  affords  another 
attraction.  Membury  Castle  (one  mile  south) 
and  Wey croft  are  ancient  Roman  or  British 


222         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

fortifications.  It  is  believed  that  the  battle  of 
Brunanburgh,  A.D.  937,  was  fought  near  here. 

The  George  Inn  at  Axminster,  standing  in  a  plot 
formed  by  George  Street,  Victoria  Place  and  Lyme 
Street,  is  a  noble  old  place  with  a  spacious  court- 
yard. The  barn  above  the  archway  at  the  back 
of  the  inn  is  very  picturesque,  with  mouldering 
red  and  purplish  tiles  and  hand-wrought  iron 
cleats.  Three  miles  south  of  Axminster  we  come 
to  Musbury — it  was  to  see  a  thatcher  at  this 
village  that  I  was  tempted  to  make  a  short 
expedition  into  Devon.  The  ancient  Church  of 
St  Michael  has  been  largely  rebuilt.  It  contains 
many  interesting  old  monuments,  chiefly  to 
members  of  the  family  of  the  Drakes,  of  Ashe. 
Musbury  Castle  is  a  British  or  Roman  camp. 
Ashe  House,  the  former  seat  of  the  Drake  family, 
is  now  a  farm-house.  The  New  Inn  is  an  odd 
little  place,  with  a  grey  and  shining  stone  floor, 
and  windows  set  deep  in  thick  walls. 

Cloyton  is  five  miles  south-west  of  Axminster 
in  the  picturesque  valley  of  the  River  Coly,  and 
three  miles  from  the  sea.  The  Parish  Church  of 
St  Andrew  contains  much  of  great  interest.  The 
porch  of  the  old  vicarage  house  should  be  seen, 
with  the  inscription  PEDITATIO  TOTUM ; 
MED1TATIO  TOTUM,  A.D.  1524,  over  the 
window.  There  is  an  ancient  market-house  here. 


222 


DEVON  AND  DORSET  BORDERLAND     223 

The  "  Great  House  "  is  another  old  and  interest- 
ing building.     It  was  once  the  home  of  the  Yonge 
family,  and  was  built  in  the  seventeenth  century 
by    John   Yonge,    a   merchant   adventurer   who 
settled  at  Colyton,  but  it  has  been  partly  rebuilt, 
although  the  portion  of  the  house  which  remains 
suggests    something    of    the    old    building    and 
contains  some  interesting  carving.     The  Duke  of 
Monmouth   stayed  here  in  1680.     There  are  in- 
teresting effigies  of  the  Pole  family  in  their  chapel 
in  the  Church  of  St  Andrew,  which  is  fenced  off 
with  a  stone  sc  reen  erected  by  the  vicar  of  Colyton, 
1524-1544.     The  vicar  was  also  Canon  of  Exeter, 
and  his  rebus  figures  prominently  on  the  screen. 
The  great  tomb  of  Sir  John  Pole,  buried  in  1658, 
and  Elizabeth  his  wife  displays  elaborate  effigies, 
while  the  altar-tomb  is  that  of  William   Pole, 
buried  in  1587.      Near  by  is  a  mural  monument 
to  his  wife,  Katherine,  and  another  to  Mary,  wife 
of  Sir  William,  the  historian,  and  daughter  of  Sir 
W.  Periham  of  Fulford.     Both  these  ladies  have 
their  children  kneeling  round  them.     The  author 
of  the  well-known  Description  of  Devon  is  buried  in 
the  aisle,  but  there  is  no  monument.    When  I  was 
staying  with  the  headmaster  of  Colyton  Grammar 
School  (an  ancient  building  bearing  the  date  1612) 
some  twenty  years  ago  there  were  representatives 
of  the  knightly  family  of  Poles  among  his  pupils. 


224          THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

In  the  north  aisle  is  the  mausoleum  of  the 
Yonge  family.  Another  interesting  monument 
is  an  elaborate  altar-tomb  in  the  chancel  with 
a  recumbent  female  figure  popularly  known  as 
"  Little  Choke-Bone,"  referring  to  Margaret 
Courtenay,  daughter  of  William  Earl  of  Devon, 
and  Katherine,  his  wife,  sixth  daughter  of 
Edward  IV.  She  is  said  to  have  been  choked  by 
a  fish-bone  at  Colcombe  Castle  in  1512. 

The  Courtenays,  Earls  of  Devon,  once  held  all 
the  land  in  this  neighbourhood,  and  their  seat 
was  at  Colcombe  Castle,  hard  by,  for  three 
hundred  years,  but  Henry  VIII.  quarrelled  with 
Henry  Courtenay,  Marquess  of  Exeter,  and 
deprived  him  of  his  estates  in  1538.  It  is  a 
curious  fact  that  the  parish  charities  of  Colyton 
are  still  mostly  derived  from  these  forfeited 
estates. 

The  ruins  of  Colcombe  Castle  lie  about  half- 
a-mile  from  the  town,  and  are  now  used  as  a 
farm-house.  Near  here  grows  Lobelia  urens, 
the  "  flower  of  the  Axe,"  a  rare  British  flower,  in 
appearance  very  like  the  garden  lobelia.  Kil- 
mington  is  said  to  bear,  in  the  first  syllable  of  its 
name,  the  trace  of  the  great  battle  fought  in  the 
Axe  Valley  in  Saxon  times. 

Another  interesting  excursion  from  Lyme 
might  be  taken  to  Lambert's  Castle  and  Ford 


DEVON  AND  DORSET  BORDERLAND     225 

Abbey.  Ford  can  be  reached  by  rail  to  Card 
Junction.  The  Abbey  is  about  a  mile  east  of 
the  station.  The  first  long  climb  out  of  Lyme 
by  the  Axminster  road  to  Hunter's  Lodge  Inn  is 
not  encouraging.  From  this  inn  the  road  runs 
straight  ahead  along  the  road  to  Marshwood, 
passing  Monkton  Wyld  Cross,  and  gradually 
ascending  to  Lambert's  Castle,  which  is  eight 
hundred  and  forty-two  feet  above  the  sea-level. 
The  Castle  is  an  important  British  and  Roman 
camp.  A  fair  and  horse-races  are  still  held  here 
twice  a  year,  and  a  magnificent  view  over  the 
Char  valley  is  obtained  from  this  point.  Pilsdon 
Pen  can  be  reached  by  the  Beaminster  Road, 
which  can  be  picked  up  two  miles  north-east 
from  Lambert's  Castle.  At  Birdsmoor  Gate,  two 
miles  beyond,  is  the  Rose  and  Crown  Inn  and 
a  crossing  of  the  ways.  The  road  to  Ford  Abbey 
and  Chard  swings  round  to  the  left,  but  if  the 
pilgrim  wishes  to  view  the  home  of  Wordsworth 
and  his  sister,  he  must  change  his  route  and 
proceed  along  the  Crewkerne  road  for  half-a-mile 
until  Racedown  Farm  is  reached.  Dorothy 
Wordsworth  described  it  as  "  the  place  dearest  to 
my  recollections  upon  the  whole  surface  of  the 
island  ;  the  first  home  I  had  " ;  and  she  wrote 
with  great  feeling  about  the  charm  and  beauty  of 
the  neighbourhood. 


226         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

Charmouth  is  a  pleasant  walk  of  two  miles  from 
Lyme  Regis,  but  the  road  goes  over  a  very  steep 
hill  at  the  top  of  which  is  a  cutting  known  as  the 
"  New  Passage,"  the  "  Devil's  Bellows,"  where  in 
windy  weather  there  is  a  chance  of  being  carried 
off  one's  feet.  The  village  consists  of  one  long 
street  situated  above  the  mouth  of  the  Char,  the 
leading  feature  of  the  view  being  the  heights 
which  hedge  in  the  valley,  particularly  those  from 
which  the  road  has  just  descended.  It  is  an 
ancient  place,  which  still  preserves  the  memory 
of  two  sanguinary  battles  between  the  Danes  and 
Saxons.  In  the  first  the  Saxons  were  commanded 
by  Egbert,  in  the  second  by  Ethelwolf.  In  both 
the  Danes  were  victorious,  but  so  crippled  in  the 
fight  that  they  were  obliged  to  retreat  to  their 
ships.  At  Charmouth,  too,  in  the  attempted 
escape  of  Charles  II.  to  France,  occurred  the 
incident  which  so  nearly  led  to  the  discovery  of 
the  fugitive.  A  plan  had  been  concerted  with 
the  captain  of  a  merchantman  trading  to  Lyme 
that  a  boat  at  a  particular  hour  of  the  night 
should  be  sent  to  the  beach  at  Charmouth. 
Charles  rode  hither  under  the  guidance  of  Lord 
Wilmot  and  Colonel  Wyndham  and  rested  at 
the  little  inn  to  await  the  appointed  time.  The 
vessel,  however,  from  unforeseen  circumstances, 
was  unable  to  leave  the  harbour,  and  the  fugitive 


DEVON  AND  DORSET  BORDERLAND    227 

was  obliged  to  give  up  the  enterprise  and  to  pass 
the  night  in  the  village.     The  next  morning  it 
was  found  that  his  horse  had  cast  a  shoe,  and  the 
village  blacksmith  was  summoned  to  repair  the 
loss.     This  was  a  curious  fellow,  whose  suspicions 
were  aroused   on   observing  that  the   old   shoes 
were  fastened  in  a  manner  peculiar  to  the  north 
of  England.     The  hostler,  who  was  a  Republican 
soldier,  carried  the  information  to  the  Puritan 
minister.      From   the   minister   it   went  to   the 
magistrate,    and    from   the    magistrate   to    the 
captain  of  a  troop  of  horse,  who  soon  galloped 
with   his  men  in  pursuit.     Fortunately  for  the 
king,  they  took  the  wrong  road,  and  he  escaped. 
The  inn  at  which  Charles  rested  is  still  standing. 
Part  of  it  is  now  the  Congregational  Manse.     The 
front  of  the  house  has  now  been  entirely  modern- 
ised, but  the  interior  has  retained  all  the  quaint 
features  of  the  Carolean  period,  and  here  one  may 
still  see  heavy  ceilings  and   fine  oak-panellings. 
In  the  portion  which  is  now  a  cottage  a  large 
chimney  (which  is  said  to  have  served  as  a  hiding- 
place)  and  the  "  king's  bedroom  "  are  still  pointed 
out    to    visitors.      Until    comparatively    recent 
times  the  inn  was  still  providing  ale  to  thirsty 
rustics  and  was  called  the  "  Queen's  Head,"  and 
several  old  natives  can  remember  when  the  land- 
lord displayed  a  sign  on  which  was  inscribed  : 


228         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

"  Here  in  this  house  was  lodged  King  Charles, 
Come  in,  sirs,  you  may  venture ; 
For  here  is  entertainment  good 
For  churchman  or  dissenter." 

In  1902  a  commemoration  tablet  was  placed 
on  the  house.  Similar  tablets  have  been  placed 
on  Ellesdon  Farm,  the  George  Inn  (now  a  shop), 
Bridport,  and  on  the  George  Inn,  Broadwindsor, 
at  each  of  which  Charles  II.  took  refreshment  or 
a  night's  lodgment  during  his  passage  through 
Dorset. 

Two  lanes,  one  turning  off  near  the  top  of  the 
straight  descent,  and  one  just  below  the  church, 
lead  in  a  few  minutes  to  the  sea.  The  beach  is 
sand,  shingle  and  rock,  and  supports  a  coast- 
guard station,  bathing  machines  and  a  few 
fishing-boats  which  are  launched  from  the  beach. 
There  are  cliffs  on  each  side  of  the  bay,  and  here 
the  Char,  "  a  small,  irregular,  alder-fringed,  play- 
ful river,  full  of  strange  fish  such  as  inland  streams 
yield  not,"  mingles  very  modestly  with  the  sea. 
The  river  rises  under  Lewesdon  and  Pilesdon, 
about  six  miles  distant  in  a  direct  line.  Three 
miles  north  of  Charmouth  is  Corrie  Castle  (King's 
Castle),  supposed  to  have  been  the  camp  of  Egbert 
when  he  fought  with  the  Danes. 

The  cliffs  at  Charmouth  exhibit  a  fine  section 
of  the  strata  and  abound  in  interesting  fossil 


DEVON  AND  DORSET  BORDERLAND    229 

remains.  These  include  the  bones  of  those 
colossal  reptiles  the  ichthyosaurus  and  plesio- 
saurus,  of  the  pterodactyl,  and  numerous  fish  ; 
and,  among  other  shells,  those  of  the  ammonite 
and  belemnite,  which  are  found  in  great  quantities 
on  Golden  Cap.  The  lias  contains  much  bitu- 
minous matter  and  iron  pyrites,  which  have 
frequently  taken  fire  after  heavy  rains.  At  a 
bed  of  gravel  near  the  mouth  of  the  river  the 
remains  of  an  elephant  and  rhinoceros  have  been 
discovered. 

The  tourist  must  look  for  the  relic  of  the 
"  Queen's  Head "  next  above  a  chapel  and 
opposite  the  picturesque  George  Inn.  I  think 
that  the  quiet  folk  who  occupy  the  genuine  inn 
where  the  king  stopped  must  often  breathe  mild 
maledictions  over  the  heads  of  inquisitive  pilgrims 
who  peep  and  peer  into  their  windows,  and  I 
suspect  that  they  have  begged  mine  host  of  the 
George  to  claim  for  his  house  the  honour  of 
sheltering  Charles  Stuart  from  the  troops.  At  all 
events  the  George  is  pointed  out  to  the  visitor 
as  the  great  historical  attraction,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  it  was  built  long  after  the  time  King 
Charles  was  in  hiding  in  Dorset. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

RAMBLES  AROUND   BRIDPORT 

I,  who  am  a  pagan  child, 
Who  know  how  dying  Plato  smiled, 
And  how  Confucius  lessoned  kings, 
And  of  the  Buddha's  wanderings, 
Find  God  in  very  usual  things. 

TOLLER  PORCORUM  (Toller  of  the  Swine) 
has  a  railway  station  on  the  Bridport 
branch  line  and  is  two  miles  from  Maiden  Newton. 
The  name  is  explanatory,  and  great  herds  of 
swine  were  once  bred  here.  The  affix  serves  to 
distinguish  this  Toller  from  its  next  neighbour, 
Toller  Fratrum  (Toller  of  the  Brethren,  i.e.  monks), 
which  is  one  mile  from  Maiden  Newton  station. 
The  mansion  of  Sir  Thomas  Fulford  still  stands 
and  is  a  fine  instance  of  early  seventeenth- century 
domestic  architecture.  The  very  first  things  I 
noticed  about  this  house  were  the  tall,  narrow, 
thick  windows —windows  that  any  man  might 
look  upon  with  covetous  eyes.  Such  tall  stone- 
mullioned  windows  are  an  enchantment,  and,  as 
Hilaire  Belloc  says,  it  is  the  duty  of  every  man  to 
keep  up  the  high  worship  of  noble  windows  till  he 
comes  down  to  the  windowless  grave.  A  building 

230 


RAMBLES  AROUND  BRIDPORT      231 

with  a  thatched  roof  near  the  house  is  a  refectory, 
and  appropriately  cut  in  stone  on  the  wall  will  be 
noticed  a  monk  eating  bread. 

At  Wynford  Eagle,  two  miles  south,  the  church 
still  preserves  a  curious  tympanum  of  a  Norman 
door.  It  shows  two  ferocious  and  unspeakable- 
looking  beasts,  who  are  about  to  fight.  They  are 
said  to  be  wyverns —which  are  heraldic  monsters 
with  two  wings,  two  legs  and  tapering  bodies. 
The  most  remarkable  discovery  ever  made  in  the 
vicinity  of  Wynford  Eagle  was  recorded  by  Aubrey 
in  connection  with  the  opening  of  a  barrow  at 
Ferndown.  The  diggers  came  upon  "  a  place 
like  an  Oven,  curiously  clay'd  round ;  and  in  the 
midst  of  it  a  fair  Urn  full  of  very  firm  bones,  with  a 
great  quantity  of  black  ashes  under  it.  And  what 
is  most  remarkable ;  one  of  the  diggers  putting 
his  hand  into  the  Oven  when  first  open'd,  pull'd  it 
back  hastily,  not  being  able  to  endure  the  heat ; 
and  several  others  doing  the  like,  affirmed  it  to  be 
hot  enough  to  bake  bread.  .  .  .  Digging  further 
they  met  with  sixteen  Urns  more,  but  not  in 
Ovens ;  and  in  the  middle  one  with  ears ;  they 
were  all  full  of  some  bones  and  black  ashes." 

The  house  of  the  Sydenhams  still  stands  at 
Wynford  Eagle.  On  the  highest  point  of  the 
central  gable  a  fierce-looking  stone  eagle  arrests 
our  attention,  and  under  it  is  carved  the  date  1630. 


232        THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

Rampisham  is  three  miles  south  of  Evershot, 
and  the  churchyard  contains  an  ancient  stone 
cross,  the  decayed  condition  of  which  will  test 
the  patience  and  ingenuity  of  those  who  desire 
to  satisfy  themselves  of  the  accuracy  of  Britton's 
description  of  the  sculpture — namely,  that  it 
represents  "  the  stoning  of  St  Stephen,  the 
Martyrdom  of  St  Edmund,  the  Martyrdom  of 
St  Thomas  a  Becket,  and  two  crowned  figures 
sitting  at  a  long  table,  to  whom  a  man  kneels  on 
one  knee." 

The  inn  called  the  "  Tiger's  Head  "  is  of  great 
antiquity  ;  it  has  stooped  and  settled  down  with 
age,  and,  within,  the  low-ceiled  rooms  seem 
saturated  with  influence,  and  weighty  with  the 
wearing  of  men's  lives. 

Cross-in-Hand  stands  on  the  verge  of  the  down, 
which  breaks  away  precipitously  to  the  vale 
where  Yetminster  lies.  A  bleached  and  desolate 
upland,  it  took  its  name  from  a  stone  pillar 
which  stood  there,  a  strange,  rude  monolith,  from 
a  stratum  unknown  in  any  local  quarry,  on  which 
was  roughly  carved  a  human  hand.  Differing 
accounts  were  given  of  its  history  and  purport. 
Some  authorities  stated  that  a  devotional  cross 
had  once  formed  the  complete  erection  thereon, 
of  which  the  present  relic  was  but  the  stump ; 
others  that  the  stone  as  it  stood  was  entire,  and 


RAMBLES  AROUND  BRIDPORT     233 

that  it  had  been  fixed  there  to  mark  a  boundary 
or  place  of  meeting." 

It  was  on  this  stone  that  Alec  D'Urberville 
made  Tess  swear  not  to  tempt  him  by  her  charms. 
"  This  was  once  a  holy  cross,"  said  he.  "  Relics 
are  not  in  my  creed,  but  I  fear  you  at  moments." 
It  was  with  a  sense  of  painful  dread  that  Tess, 
after  leaving  this  spot,  learned  from  a  rustic  that 
the  stone  was  not  a  holy  cross.  "Cross— no; 
'twere  not  a  cross !  'Tis  a  thing  of  ill- omen,  miss. 
It  was  put  up  in  wuld  times  by  the  relations  of 
a  malefactor,  who  was  tortured  there  by  nailing 
his  hands  to  a  post  and  afterwards  hung.  The 
bones  lie  underneath.  They  say  he  sold  his  soul 
to  the  devil,  and  that  he  walks  at  times." 

Deep  down  below  is  the  sequestered  village  of 
Batcombe.  An  uncanny  story  attaches  itself  to 
a  battered  old  Gothic  tomb  in  Batcombe  church- 
yard. The  tomb  stands  near  the  north  wall  of 
the  church,  and  it  is  said  to  be  the  resting-place 
of  one  Conjuring  Minterne,  who  Hardy  in  one  of 
his  novels  tells  us  left  directions,  after  having 
quarrelled  with  his  vicar,  that  he  was  to  be  buried 
"  neither  in  the  church  nor  out  of  it."  It  is  said 
that  this  eccentric  injunction  was  complied  with, 
but  the  tomb  has  since  been  moved.  What  deed 
Minterne  had  committed  that  prevented  him 
from  lying  quietly  in  the  usual  grave  like  the  other 


234         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

good  folk  of  Batcombe  who  had  departed  this 
life  no  man  can  tell.  All  the  rustics  could  tell  me 
was  they  had  heard  he  had  sold  himself  to  Old 
Nick,  and  that  his  request  to  be  buried  in  such  a 
unique  manner  was  a  ruse  to  prevent  his  master 
"  the  old  'un  "  from  getting  him  when  he  died. 

In  bygone  days  the  "  conjurer  "  was  an  im- 
portant character  in  the  Dorset  village,  and  he 
was  generally  of  good  reputation,  and  supposed 
to  be  gifted  with  supernatural  power,  which  he 
exercised  for  good.  By  his  incantations  and 
ceremonies  he  cured  anything  from  inflamed  eyes 
to  lung  disease.  A  Wessex  dealer  in  magic  and 
spells  is  mentioned  in  Hardy's  story,  The  Withered 
Arm.  He  lived  in  a  valley  in  the  remotest  part 
of  Egdon  Heath : 

"  He  did  not  profess  his  remedial  practices 
openly,  or  care  anything  about  their  continuance, 
his  direct  interests  being  those  of  a  dealer  in 
furze,  turf,  '  sharp  sand,'  and  other  local  products. 
Indeed,  he  affected  not  to  believe  largely  in  his 
own  powers,  and  when  warts  that  had  been  shown 
him  for  cure  miraculously  disappeared— which  it 
must  be  owned  they  infallibly  did— he  would  say 
lightly,  '  Oh,  I  only  drink  a  glass  of  grog  upon 
'em— perhaps  it's  all  chance,'  and  immediately 
turn  the  subject." 

But  to  return  to  Minterne.     The  present  vicar 


RAMBLES  AROUND  BRIDPORT      235 

of  Batcombe  church— Rev.  Joseph  Pulliblank-— 
thinks  the  fore- shortened  stone  of  Minterne's 
tomb,  which  is  square  instead  of  the  usual  oblong, 
gives  some  support  to  the  story  of  the  "  conjurer  " 
being  buried  with  his  feet  under  the  masonry  of 
the  church  wall.  The  following  paragraph  is 
also  from  some  notes  kindly  sent  to  me  by  the 
Rev.  Joseph  Pulliblank  :— 

"  Batcombe  Church,  originally  Saxon,  has  only 
two  points  which  testify  to  the  fact — (1)  A  Saxon 
font  inside,  (2)  a  small  portion  of  Saxon  masonry 
worked  into  the  outside  south  wall. 

"  In  modern  times  Batcombe  was  the  seat  of 
*  the  Little  Commonwealth  '  settlement  founded 
by  the  Earl  of  Sandwich  and  run  on  the  lines  of 
the  4  George  Junior  Republic  '  in  America — 
owing  to  financial  and  other  difficulties  it  came 
to  an  end  during  the  war." 

In  the  church  are  wall  tablets  to  the  Minterne 
family  :  one  to  a  John  Minterne  who  died  in 
1716,  as  well  as  a  John  Minterne  who  was  buried 
in  1592.  There  is  a  monument  to  Bridget  Min- 
terne in  Yetminster  church,  who  was  the  wife  of 
John  Minterne  of  Batcombe.  The  inscription 
runs  : 

"  Here  lyeth  y  body  of  Bridgett  Minterne  wife 
of  John  Minterne  of  Batcombe  esq.,  second 
daughter  of  Sir  John  Brown  of  Frampton  Kt. 
who  died  y  19th  July  Ano  Domini  1649." 


236         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

Which  of  the  ancient  possessors  of  Batcombe 
can  claim  the  honour  of  being  the  famous  Con- 
juring Minterne  I  was  unable  to  discover.  Little 
remains  of  his  history.  We  only  know  that  he  was 
always  kind,  and  knew  how  to  ride  well,  for  he  once 
jumped  his  horse  from  the  crest  of  the  down  into 
the  village,  knocking  one  of  the  pinnacles  off  the 
church  tower  on  his  way.  He  would  not  talk 
much  about  wizardry,  but  would  rather  sing 
songs.  No  doubt  Minterne  was  a  very  lovable 
fellow  ! 

In  Rudyard  Kipling's  "Marklake  Witches" 
(Rewards  and  Fairies)  the  Sussex  "  conjurer  "  is 
represented  by  Jerry  Gamm  the  witchmaster, 
and  he  is  one  of  the  most  striking  examples  in 
literature  of  the  rustic  astrologer  and  doctor. 
The  following  charm— a  very  excellent  one,  too 
—was  Jerry  Gamm's  charm  against  a  disease  of 
an  obstinate  and  deadly  character  : 

"  You  know  the  names  of  the  Twelve  Apostles, 
dearie  ?  You  say  them  names,  one  by  one,  be- 
fore your  open  window,  rain  or  storm,  wet  or 
shine,  five  times  a  day  fasting.  But  mind  you, 
'twixt  every  name  you  draw  in  your  breath 
through  your  nose,  right  down  to  your  pretty 
toes,  as  long  and  as  deep  as  you  can,  and  let  it  out 
slow  through  your  pretty  little  mouth.  There's 
virtue  for  your  cough  in  those  names  spoke  that 


RAMBLES  AROUND  BRIDPORT      287 

way.  And  I'll  give  you  something  you  can  see, 
moreover.  Here's  a  stick  of  maple  which  is  the 
warmest  tree  in  the  wood.  It's  cut  one  inch  long 
for  you  every  year,"  Jerry  said.  "  That's  sixteen 
inches.  You  set  it  in  your  window  so  that  it 
holds  up  the  sash,  and  thus  you  keep  it,  rain  or 
shine,  or  wet  or  fine,  day  and  night.  I've  said 
words  over  it  which  will  have  virtue  on  your 
complaints." 

Bridport  lies  two  miles  inland  from  the  sea 
and  its  unheard-of  harbour  of  West  Bay.  We 
first  hear  of  the  town  in  the  reign  of  Edward  the 
Confessor,  when  it  could  boast  a  mint,  a  priory  of 
monks  and  two  hundred  houses.  In  Saxon  days 
it  was  probably  a  place  of  some  importance,  owing 
to  the  fact  of  it  being  the  port  to  the  River  Brit, 
but  its  early  history  is  without  any  distinctive 
mark  or  important  event.  When  Charles  II.  ar- 
rived at  Bridport  in  his  hasty  flight  from  Char- 
mouth  the  town  was  full  of  soldiers,  but  the  royal 
party  went  boldly  to  an  inn  (the  George,  now  a 
shop,  incorporating  part  of  the  old  building 
opposite  the  Town  Hall)  and  mixed  with  the 
company.  Every  stranger  was  mistrusted  by  the 
troops,  however,  and  Charles  and  his  suite  quitted 
the  town  after  a  hasty  meal.  They  retired  by 
the  main  Dorchester  road  and  took  a  lane  leading 
to  Broadwindsor  and  so  escaped.  Lee  Lane,  a 


238        THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

mile  to  the  east  of  Bridport,  is  said  to  be  the 
actual  scene  where  the  royal  party  retreated  to 
security. 

The  first  thing  the  pilgrim  will  notice  when 
entering  Bridport  is  the  generous  width  of  the 
streets,  and  it  is  a  curious  fact  that  the  local  in- 
dustries have  left  their  stamp  on  the  town  in  this 
way.  The  town  was  always  famed  for  its  hempen 
manufactures,  and  it  furnished  most  of  the  cord- 
age for  the  royal  fleet  in  the  good  old  times  of 
"  wooden  walls."  It  was  for  this  reason  the  roads 
were  made  wider— to  allow  each  house  to  have 
a  "rope  walk."  At  one  time  the  town  enjoyed 
almost  a  monopoly  in  the  manufacture  of  cordage. 
Gallows'  ropes  also  were  made  here,  hence  the 
grim  retort  often  heard  in  Wessex :  "  You'll  live 
to  be  stabbed  with  a  Bridport  dagger  !  " 

George  Barnet,  "  a  gentleman-burgher  of  Port 
Bredy,"  in  Hardy's  Fellow  Townsmen,  was  de- 
scended from  the  hemp  and  rope  merchants  of 
Bridport. 

The  church  is  fifteenth-century  and  contains  a 
cross-legged  effigy  of  a  mail-clad  knight,  probably 
one  of  the  De  Chideocks.  The  old  building  was 
restored  in  1860,  when  two  bays  were  added  to 
the  nave.  Thomas  Hardy  waxes  bitterly  jocular 
over  this  piece  of  restoration  :  "  The  church  had 
had  such  a  tremendous  joke  played  upon  it  by 


RAMBLES  AROUND  BRIDPORT      289 

some  facetious  restorer  or  other  as  to  be  scarce 
recognisable  by  its  dearest  old  friends." 

West  Bay  and  Bridport  are  scenes  in  Hardy's 
tale,  Fellow  Townsmen,  where  they  are  dealt  with 
under  the  name  of  "  Port  Bredy,"  from  the  name 
of  the  little  River  Bredy,  which  here  flows  into 
the  sea.  The  town  mainly  consists  of  one  long 
highway,  divided  at  West  Street  and  East  Street 
by  the  clock  tower  of  the  Town  Hall,  which  forms 
the  very  hub  of  commercial  liveliness,  with  the  fine 
old  inns  and  quaint  shops  about  it.  The  Grey- 
hound Hotel  is  a  place  very  much  favoured  by 
travellers,  and  for  old-fashioned  fare  and  comfort 
there  is  no  inn  in  England  which  could  better  it. 
Mr  Trump,  the  broad-shouldered  landlord,  is  one  of 
the  old  school,  a  man  of  genial  humour  and  generous 
strength,  and  his  popularity  reaches  well  over  the 
borders  of  Dorset.  He  is  a  great  lover  of  horses, 
and  I  stood  by  his  side  as  he  surveyed  a  manifesta- 
tion of  Divine  Energy  in  the  form  of  a  horse  of 
spirit  and  tremendous  power  owned  by  a  local 
farmer.  "  Walter  "  Trump  took  off  his  hat  to  the 
fine  animal  and  turned  to  me,  saying  :  "  If  there 
are  no  horses  in  heaven  I  don't  want  to  go  there." 

South  Street  turns  down  to  the  quay  near  the 
Greyhound,  and  in  the  summer  traps  will  be 
usually  found  at  this  corner  to  take  one  down  to 
the  sea. 


240        THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

The  Literary  and  Scientific  Institute,  in  East 
Street,  opposite  the  Bull  Hotel,  contains  a  number 
of  coins  and  some  natural  history  exhibits,  as  well 
as  a  library. 

The  Conservative  Club  has  been  established  in 
a  fine  old  Tudor  building  in  South  Street,  on  the 
opposite  side  of  which  is  another  ancient  house 
called  Dungeness.  At  the  back  of  a  house  on  the 
south  side  of  the  East  Bridge  is  a  portion  of 
the  old  Hospital  of  St  John.  The  Bull  has  been 
modernised,  but  it  is  the  Black  Bull  where 
George  Barnet  put  up  on  his  return  to  his  native 
town,  in  Fellow  Townsmen. 

Between  the  Town  Hall  and  the  Greyhound 
is  a  passage  known  as  Bucky  Doo,  which  the 
Rev.  R.  Grosvenor  Bartelot  traces  to  "  Bocardo," 
"  originally  a  syllogism  in  logic,  which  was  here, 
as  at  Oxford,  applied  to  the  prison,  because,  just 
as  a  Bocardo  syllogism  always  ended  in  a  final 
negative,  so  did  a  compulsory  visit  to  the  Bocardo 
lock-up  generally  mean  a  closer  acquaintance 
with  the  disciplinary  use  of  '  the  Bridport  dagger  ' 
and  a  final  negative  to  the  drama  of  life." 

If  the  pilgrim  wishes  to  make  a  pleasant  excur- 
sion on  foot  to  West  Bay  he  must  take  a  track 
that  goes  round  the  churchyard  and  follow  the 
riverside  footpath  on  the  right  bank  of  the 
stream.  Thus  we  arrive  at  Bridport  Quay  and 


RAMBLES  AROUND  BRIDPORT      241 

West  Bay.  The  harbour  never  became  of  any  im- 
portance owing  to  the  microscopic  shingle  which 
has  always  obstructed  and  choked  its  mouth. 
Everywhere  the  pilgrim  turns  he  sees  hillocks  of 
this  waste  sand  which  has  prevented  a  willing 
port  from  serving  its  country.  The  fact  that 
Bridport  was  not  called  upon  to  provide  any 
ships  either  for  the  siege  of  Calais  in  1347  or  for 
the  fleet  to  oppose  the  Spanish  Armada  may  be 
accepted  as  proof  that  the  burgesses  of  the  town 
possessed  no  vessels  large  enough  for  fighting  pur- 
poses. So  the  little  harbour  fell  into  indolence 
and  sluggishness,  thus  bearing  out  the  truth  of 
the  old  saying:  "That  which  does  not  serve 
dies." 

The  place  is  picturesque  in  an  odd  and  casual 
way,  and  a  scattering  of  quaint  old  dwellings 
contrast  with  a  row  of  new  lodging-houses  which 
are  very  showy  (rory-tory  the  Dorset  rustic 
would  style  them !)  in  spite  of  their  affectation 
of  the  dandy-go-rusty  tiles  of  antiquity.  A  little 
group  of  fishermen  may  always  be  seen  loafing 
and  smoking  by  the  thatched  Bridport  Arms 
Hotel,  and  the  only  time  these  good  fellows  ever 
show  any  quickening  to  life  is  when  some  barque, 
taking  unusual  risks,  allows  itself  to  be  towed 
and  winched  between  the  narrow  pier-heads.  At 
such  times  the  spirit  of  ships  and  men  departed 

Q 


242         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

seems  to  enter  into  them,  and  they  shout  and 
heave  and  sing  randy-dandy  deep-sea  songs,  and 
use  much  profanity. 

The  shingle  is  part  of  one  of  the  remarkable 
features  of  the  Dorset  coast— the  Chesil  Beach  or 
Chesil  Bank,  which  runs  as  far  as  Portland. 
Chesil  is  Old  English  for  pebble,  the  old  word 
being  found  in  Chesilton  in  Dorset  and  Chisle- 
hurst  in  Kent.  The  pebbles  gradually  grow 
coarser  as  one  progresses  in  a  south-easterly  direc- 
tion, so  that  in  olden  days  the  smugglers,  running 
their  "  tubs  "  ashore,  at  venture,  in  the  fog  or 
during  the  night,  knew  the  exact  stretch  of  bank 
they  had  arrived  on  by  taking  a  handful  of  shingle 
to  examine.  The  attractions  of  West  Bay  are 
good  bathing,  good  sea  fishing  and  good  boating, 
for  the  curious  little  harbour  is  a  particularly 
pleasing  haunt  for  amateur  sailors. 

There  are  many  pleasant  short  walks  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Bridport  and  West  Bay.  Eype 
is  reached  from  Bridport  by  field  paths  passing 
through  Allington  and  the  Lovers'  Grove.  A 
bridle- way  takes  one  to  Eype  church,  standing  on 
the  ridge,  whence  it  leads  through  the  village  down 
a  deep  hollow  to  the  beach.  Continuing  over 
Thorncombe  Beacon,  we  reach  Seatown,  which 
is  'a  seaside  branch  of  Chideock.  "  Chiddick," 
as  any  Wessex  man  of  the  soil  will  pronounce 


RAMBLES  AROUND  BRIDPORT      248 

the  name,  is  a  little  less  than  a  mile  inland 
on  the  Lyme  Regis  road.  The  Anchor  Inn 
at  Seatown  is  an  old  place  of  entertainment  I 
have  not  personally  visited,  but  a  man  who  knows 
his  Dorset  informs  me  that  it  is  a  place  where  the 
centuries  mingle  ;  with  black  beams  in  the  ceiling, 
oak  settles,  shining  with  long  usage,  and  ironwork 
full  of  the  rough  simplicity  of  the  Elizabethan 
forge.  I  shall  call  there  next  time  I  fare  Dorset 
way,  if  only  to  stand  in  the  great  bay  window 
which  looks  out  to  the  sea.  Such  buildings 
remind  one,  not  of  decay  but  of  immutableness. 
Perhaps  even  the  summons  of  the  dark  Reaper 
would  not  sound  quite  so  sharp  in  an  ancient  inn. 
There  are  less  perfect  places  one  might  die  in,  and 
if  I  had  my  wish  I  would  choose  to  pass  away  in 
an  inn,  where  all  my  regrets  would  be  arrested  by 
the  stamping  of  feet  on  the  sanded  floor  beneath, 
and  the  ancient  and  untutored  voices  of  farm- 
hands and  ploughmen  singing  some  lively  song. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ROUND  ABOUT  BEAMINSTER 

BEAMINSTER  is  six  miles  to  the  north  of 
Bridport,  and  is  reached  by  a  pleasant 
walk,  passing  on  the  way  the  little  village  of 
Melplash. 

It  is  a  sleepy  country  town,  deeply  seated 
among  hills,  near  the  head-waters  of  the  Birt, 
which  flows  through  it.  It  is  a  place  of  some 
antiquity,  but  not  remarkable  for  much,  if  we 
except  its  sufferings  by  fire.  In  1644,  when 
Prince  Maurice  was  quartered  here,  it  was  burnt 
completely  to  the  ground,  having  been  fired  by 
a  drunken  soldier.  The  greater  part  of  it  was 
a  second  time  destroyed  in  1684,  and  again  in 
1788. 

Very  prominent  landmarks  of  the  Beaminster 
district  are  Pilsdon  Pen  and  Lewesdon  Hill,  two 
eminences  of  green  sand  remarkable  for  their 
likeness  to  one  another.  The  singularity  of  their 
appearance  has  naturally  excited  much  attention. 
Sailors,  whom  they  serve  as  a  landmark,  call  them 
the  Cmv  and  the  Calf;  the  Rev.  William  Crowe 
has  sung  the  praises  of  Lewesdon  in  a  descriptive 
poem,  and  the  two  hills  together  have  given 

244 


ROUND  ABOUT  BEAMINSTER      245 

rise  to  a  proverbial  saying  current  in  this  coun- 
try and  applied  to  neighbours  who  are  not 
acquainted : 

"  .  .  .  as  much  akin 
As  Lew'son  Hill  to  Pil'son  Pen." 

These  hills  command  a  charming  prospect,  and 
Pilsdon  is  further  interesting  as  the  site  of  an 
ancient  camp,  of  oval  form,  encompassed  by 
three  strong  ramparts  and  ditches.  It  is  the 
highest  point  in  the  county,  nine  hundred  and 
thirty-four  feet  above  the  sea.  Crowe's  Lewes- 
don  Hill  was  much  admired  by  Rogers,  who  says 
in  his  TabU  Talk:  "When  travelling  in  Italy 
I  made  two  authors  my  constant  study  for 
versification,  Milton  and  Crowe." 

Beaminster  is  in  a  centre  of  a  district  famous 
for  its  great  dairies,  flowers,  bees  and  rural  in- 
dustries, and  here  is  produced  the  famous  Double 
Dorset  and  Blue  Vinny  cheese  which  has  always 
a  place  on  the  table  of  the  true  Dorset  family. 
The  word  "  vinny  "  means  mouldy  ;  thus  when 
the  rustic  thinks  his  cheese  is  in  a  fine  ripe  con- 
dition he  will  be  likely  to  remark :  "  This  yer 
cheese  is  butvul  now ;  tez  vinnied  through  and 
through."  The  same  word  is  also  used  in  Devon- 
shire for  "bad-tempered,"  thus,  "You  vinnied 
little  mullybrub,  git  out  of  my  sight  this  minut !  " 


246         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

The  large  dairies  where  the  cheeses  are  made  are 
called  "  soap  factories  "  by  the  facetious  natives, 
and  one  frequently  meets  motor  lorries  grinding 
up  the  sharp  hills  beneath  the  burden  of  a  hundred 
or  so  freshly  pressed  rounds  of  cheese. 

In  spite  of  the  town's  sufferings  by  fire  the 
grand  old  church  has  fortunately  always  escaped. 
It  is  approached  by  a  lane  at  the  corner  of  the 
market-place.  The  pride  of  Beaminster  is  the  old 
church  tower,  which  was  built  in  1520.  A  native 
said  to  me  :  "  Didee  ever  see  zich  a  comfortable- 
looking  old  tower  as  that  be,  and  I  knaws 
you  won't  see  more  trinkrums  on  any  church  in 
the  county."  By  "trinkrums"  I  suppose  he 
meant  the  gargoyles,  pinnacles  and  profusion  of 
delicate  carvings  for  which  the  gracious  amber- 
coloured  tower  is  justly  famous.  The  church 
itself  cannot  vie  with  the  tower  for  elegance  or 
magnificence.  Indeed  the  church  is  quite  a  dull- 
looking  place.  However,  the  nave,  arcade  and  a 
squint  from  the  south  aisle  into  the  chancel  are 
Early  English.  The  pulpit  is  Jacobean.  There 
are  two  handsome  monuments  to  members  of 
the  Strode  family  and  some  memorial  windows 
to  the  Oglanders  and  other  benefactors.  Af- 
fixed to  the  pavement  of  the  south  aisle  is  an 
early  brass,  with  this  inscription  in  Old  English 
characters : 


ROUND  ABOUT  BEAMINSTER        247 

"Pray  for  the  soule  of  Sr.  John  Tone  whos 
body  lyth  berid  under  this  tombe  on  whos 
soule  Jhu  have  mercy  a  patr  nost'  &  ave." 

Sir  John  was  a  priest,  and  probably  a  Knight  of 
Malta,  who  died  in  Beaminster  while  he  was  on  a 
pilgrimage  through  Dorset. 

The  church  is  the  scene  of  a  "well-authenticated  " 
apparition.  Down  to  the  year  1748  the  free  school 
(of  which  the  Rev.  Samuel  Hood,  father  of  Ad- 
mirals Viscount  Hood  and  Lord  Bridport,  was  at 
one  time  master)  was  held  in  one  of  the  galleries, 
and  there,  on  "  Saturday,  June  22,  1728,"  did  one 
John  Daniel  appear  at  full  noonday  to  five  of 
his  school-fellows,  "  between  three  weeks  and  a 
month  after  his  burial."  The  reason  was  plain 
when  his  body  was  dug  up  and  duly  examined, 
for  it  was  found  that  he  had  been  strangled. 

Letherbury,  about  a  mile  south  of  Beaminster, 
is  a  pleasant  walk  down  the  Brit  valley,  by  the 
river-side.  On  the  road  is  Parnham,  a  noble 
mansion  of  the  Tudor  period  standing  in  a  well 
wooded  and  watered  demesne.  From  the  Parn- 
hams  this  estate  came  to  the  Strodes,  passing 
thence  in  1764  to  the  Oglanders.  Other  old 
houses  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Beaminster  are 
Strode,  Melplash  and  Mapperton,  and  the  whole 
district  bears  the  marks  of  long  and  prosperous 
agricultural  occupation  in  the  old-fashioned  days 


248         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

when  "  squire  "  and  tenant  lived  and  died  in 
semi  feudal  relationship  on  the  estate  which  the 
one  owned  and  the  other  rented. 

Mapperton  House  belongs  to  the  time  of 
Henry  VIII.  In  the  reign  of  that  sovereign  the 
lord  of  the  manor  was  Robert  Morgan,  who  had 
the  following  patent  granted  to  him  :— "  Foras- 
moche  as  we  bee  credibly  informed  that  our  wel- 
biloved  Robert  Morgan  Esquier,  for  diverse 
infirmities  which  he  hathe  in  his  hedde,  cannot 
convenyently,  without  his  grete  danngier,  be  dis- 
covered of  the  same.  Whereupon  wee  in  tendre 
consideration  thereof  have  by  these  presents 
licensed  him  to  use  and  wear  his  bonnet  on  his 
hed  at  all  tymys,  as  wel  in  our  presence  as  else- 
wher  at  his  libertie." 

Poor  old  Robert !  Perhaps  his  Dorset  stub- 
bornness had  as  much  to  do  with  his  wearing 
a  "bonnet  at  all  tymys"  as  the  "infirmities  in 
his  hedde."  But  he  was  well  able  to  take  care  of 
himself,  for  he  built  this  beautiful  manor-house 
and  recorded  the  fact  in  the  great  hall  : 

"  Robt.  Morgan  and  Mary  his  wife  built  this 
house  in  their  own  lifetime,  at  their  own  charge 
and  cost. 

What  they  spent,  that  they  lent : 
What  they  gave,  that  they  have  : 
What  they  left,  that  they  lost." 


A  GLOSSARY  OF  WEST  COUNTRY 
PROVINCIALISMS 

Abide.  Cannot  abide  a  thing  is,  not  able  to  suffer  or  put 
up  with  it. 

Addle.  Attle  is  a  term  used  in  mining,  and  signifies  the 
rejected  and  useless  rubbish.  Hence  an  addled  egg 
is  an  egg  unfit  for  use. 

Aft,  now  only  used  as  a  sea  term,  but  anciently  with 
degrees  of  comparison,  as  "  after,  aftest." 

Agate,  open-mouthed  attention ;  hearkening  with  eager- 
ness. "  He  was  all  agate,"  eager  to  hear  what  was 
said. 

Alare,  a  short  time  ago  :  in  common  use. 

Anan.  A  Shakespearean  expression  formerly  used  by  the 
Dorset  rustics  when  they  wished  to  have  a  repetition 
of  what  had  been  said ;  but  no  one  now  uses  it. 

Backalong,  homeward. 

Ballyrag,  to  scold. 

Banging-gert,  very  large. 

Barken,  an  enclosed  place,  as  a  rick-barken,  a  rick-yard. 
In  Sussex  a  yard  or  enclosure  near  a  house  is  called  a 
"  barton,"  from  barley  ;  and  tun,  an  enclosure. 

Barm,  yeast. 

Bayte,  to  beat,  or  thrash. 

"  A  wumman, 
A  spenyel, 
And  a  walnut-tree, 
The  oftener  yu  bayte  'em 
Better  they'll  be." 

Blare,  to  shout  loudly. 

"Chillern  pick  up  words  as  pigeons  pease, 
And  blare  them  again  as  God  shall  please." 
249 


250         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

Brath,  the  ancient  Cornish  name  for  a  mastiff  dog. 
Perhaps  this  accounts  for  the  common  expression, 
"  a  broth  of  a  boy,"  meaning  "  a  stout  dog  of  a  boy  " 
— a  sturdy  fellow. 

Buck,  that  peculiar  infection  which  in  summer  sometimes 
gets  into  a  dairy  and  spoils  the  cream  and  butter  ;  a 
sign  of  gross  negligence  and  want  of  skill,  and  not 
easily  to  be  eradicated. 

Bumpkin,  a  common  term  for  a  clumsy,  uncouth  man. 
But  whence  the  word  ? — for  it  is  also  applied  to  a  part 
of  a  ship  where  the  foretack  is  fastened  down.  The 
word  bump  means  a  protuberance,  a  prominence : 
to  bump  against  a  thing  is  a  local  term  for  striking 
oneself  clumsily  against  it. 

Butt,  a  straw  beehive. 

"A  butt  of  bees  in  May 
Is  worth  a  guinea  any  day ; 
A  butt  of  bees  in  June 
Is  worth  a  silver  spoon  ; 
A  butt  of  bees  in  July 
Isn't  worth  a  fly." 

Chitter,  thin,  folded  up.  It  is  applied  to  a  thin  and  fur- 
rowed face,  by  way  of  ridicule.  Such  a  one  is  said  to 
be  "chitter-faced."  The  long  and  folded  milts  ortestes 
of  some  fishes  are  called  "chitterlins,"  as  were  the  frills 
at  the  bosom  of  shirts  when  they  were  so  worn.  The 
entrails  of  a  pig  cleaned  and  boiled  are  common  food 
in  Wiltshire,  and  the  dish  is  called  "  chitterlings." 

Churer,  an  occasional  workman.  Char,  to  do  household 
work  in  the  absence  of  a  domestic  servant  as  a  char- 
woman. In  Dorset  they  say  "  one  good  choor 
deserves  another,"  instead  of  one  good  turn,  etc. 

Click-handed,  left-handed. 

Cloam,  common  earthenware. 

Clush,  to  lie  down  close  to  the  ground,  to  stoop  low  down. 


A  GLOSSARY  OF  PROVINCIALISMS    251 

Clusty,  close  and  heavy ;  particularly  applied  to  bread 
not  well  fermented,  and  therefore  closely  set.  Also 
applied  to  a  potato  that  is  not  mealy. 

Coccabelles,  icicles. 

Condididdle,  to  filch  away,  to  convey  anything  away  by 
trickery. 

Craking,  complaining. 

"  I,  Anthony  James  Pye  Molley, 
Can  burn,  take,  sink,  and  destroy ; 
There's  only  one  thing  I  can't  do,  on  my  life  ! 
And  that  is,  to  stop  the  craking  tongue  of  my  wife." 

Crummy,  fat,  corpulent.     "  A  fine  crummy  old  fellow." 

Daddick,  rotten  wood. 

Dew-bit,  breakfast. 

Dout,  to  extinguish. 

Downargle,  to  argue  in  an  overbearing  manner. 

Drattle  you  !    A  corruption  of  the  irreverent  oath,  "  God 

throttle  you." 

Dubbin  o*  drenk,  a  pot  of  ale. 
Durns,  door-posts. 

Ebbet,  the  common  lizard,  commonly  called  the  "  eft," 
which  may  be  a  corruption  of  this  word.  The  word 
eft  signifies  speedy  or  quick. 

Escaped.  A  person  is  said  to  be  just  escaped  when  his 
understanding  is  only  just  enough  to  warrant  his 
being  free  from  constraint  of  the  tutelage  of  his 
friends. 

Ether  or  Edder,  a  hedge ;  also  the  twisted  wands  with 
which  a  "  stake  hedge "  is  made.  They  have  a 
rhyme  in  Dorset  on  the  durability  of  a  "  stake  ether  " : 

"  An  elder  stake  and  black- thorn  ether 
Will  make  a  hedge  to  last  for  ever." 

Fags !  or,  Aw  Pegs  !    An  interjection.    Indeed  !    Truly  ! 


252         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

Fenigy,  to  run  away  secretly,  or  so  slip  off  as  to  deceive 
expectation ;  deceitfully  to  fail  in  a  promise.  It  is 
most  frequently  applied  to  cases  where  a  man  has 
shown  appearances  of  courtship  to  a  woman,  and 
then  has  left  her  without  any  apparent  reason,  and 
without  any  open  quarrel. 

Fess,  proud,  vain.  "  Lukee  her  agot  a  new  bonnet.  Why, 
her's  as  fess  as  a  paycock."  Mrs  Durbeyfield  uses 
this  word  in  Hardy's  Tess. 

Flaymerry,  a  merry-making,  or  what  is  now  vulgarly 
called  "  a  spree,"  but  with  an  innocent  meaning,  an 
excursion  for  amusement. 

Gabbern.     Gloomy,    comfortless   rooms    and    houses    are 

"  gabbern." 

Galley-bagger,  a  person  fond  of  gadding  about. 
Gallied,  scared.    Jonathan  Kail  the  farm-hand  at  Tal- 

bothay's  uses  this  word  (see  Hardy's  Tess). 
Gallyvanting,  going  from  home. 

"  Then  for  these  flagons  of  silver  fine, 
Even  they  shall  have  no  praise  of  mine  ; 
For  when  my  lord  or  lady  be  going  to  dine, 
He  sends  them  out  to  be  filled  with  wine, 
But  his  man  goes  gallyvanting  away, 
Because  they  are  precious,  and  fine,  and  gay  ; 
But  if  the  wine  had  been  order'd  in  a  leather  bottel, 
The  man  would  have  come  back,  and  all  been  well." 

Gigglet,  a  merry  young  girl,  one  who  shows  her  folly  by  a 
disposition  to  grin  and  laugh  for  no  cause.  It  is  used 
as  a  term  of  slight  and  contempt,  and  commonly 
to  a  young  girl.  Gigglet-market,  a  hiring-place  for 
servants.  From  time  immemorial,  to  within  the  last 
sixty  years,  on  Lady  Day  young  girls  in  Dorset  and 
Devon  were  accustomed  to  stand  in  the  market-place 
awaiting  a  chance  of  being  hired  as  servants. 


A  GLOSSARY  OF  PROVINCIALISMS      253 

Gu-ku,  cuckoo. 

"  The  gu-ku  is  a  merry  bird, 

She  sings  as  she  flies; 
She  brings  us  good  tidings, 

She  tells  us  no  lies. 
She  sucks  little  birds'  eggs 

To  make  her  voice  clear ; 
And  when  she  sings  '  gu-ku  ' 

The  summer  is  near." 

Hadge,  hedge. 

"  Love  thy  neighbour — but  dawnt  pull  down  thy  badge." 

Holt,  hold. 

"When  you  are  an  anvil,  holt  you  still, 
When  you  are  a  hammer,  strike  your  fill." 

Hozeburd,  a  person  of  bad  character.  "Jack  Dollop,  a 
'hore's  bird  of  a  fellow,"  is  the  hero  of  a  story  related 
by  Dairyman  Crick  in  Hardy's  Tess. 

Klip,  a  sudden  smart  blow,  but  not  a  heavy  one.     It  is 
|yj    most  usually  applied  to  a  "klip  under  the  ear."    Of 
late  the  word  klipper  is  grown  into  use  to  describe 
a  smart-sailing  vessel,  one  that  sails  very  swiftly, 
with  some  distant  reference  to  the  same  idea. 
Knap,  prominent.    It  is  sometimes  applied  to  the  pro- 
minent part  of  a  hill ;  but  it  is  more  frequently  used 
as  significant  of  the  form  of  a  person's  knees  when 
they  are  distorted  towards  each  other,  and  which 
some  people  have  chosen  to  term  knock-kneed. 

Lasher,  a  large  thing,  of  any  sort.  The  meaning  sought 
to  be  conveyed  appears  to  be  that  this  thing  beats 
or  excels  every  other.  The  opinion  that  any  object 
which  excels  another  is  able  to  beat,  lash  or  inflict 

jjjgj  violence  on  that  other  is  a  strange  but  not  uncommon 
vulgar  one. 


254         THOMAS  HARDY'S  DORSET 

Lof,  unwilling. 

"Dawntee  be  like  old  Solomon  Wise — 
'  Lof  tu  go  tu  beyd 
And  lof  to  rise.' 
Cuz  then  you'll  soon  be 
'  Out  tu  elbaws, 
Out  tu  toes, 
Out  ov  money, 
An  out  ov  cloase.'  " 

Main,  very.     I  remember  once  hearing  a  Dorset  thatcher 

say: 
"  I  be  main  fammled.     I  be  so  hungry  I  could  welly 

eat  the  barn  tiles." 
Mommet,   a  scarecrow.     See  Tess  of  the  D' Urbervilles : 

"  Had  it  anything  to  do  with  father's  making  such  a 

mommet  of  himself  in  thik  carriage  ?  " 

Nitch,  a  bundle  of  reed,  straw  or  wood.     "He's  got  a 
nitch  " — he  is  drunk. 

Peg,  pig.     "  Tez  time  tu  watch  out  when  you're  getting 
all  you  want.    Fattening  pegs  ain't  'ardly  in  luck ! 

At  a  tithe  dinner  a  farmer  in  giving  the  Royal  toast 
said: 

"  The  King,  God  bless  him !    May  he  be  plaized  to 
send  us  more  pegs  and  less  parsons." 

Stubberds,  delicious  apples. 

"  Did  you  say  the  stars  were  worlds,  Tess  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  All  like  ours  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  ;  but  I  think  so.  They  sometimes 
seem  to  be  like  the  apples  on  our  stubbard-tree. 
Most  of  them  splendid  and  sound — a  few  blighted." 

"  Which  do  we  live  on — a  splendid  one  or  a  blighted 
one  ?  " 

"  A  blighted  one."    (See  Thomas  Hardy's  Tess.) 


A  GLOSSARY  OF  PROVINCIALISMS     255 

Slugged,  stuck  in  the  mud. 

"He  that  will  not  merry  be 
With  a  pretty  girl  by  the  fire, 
I  wish  he  was  a-top  o'  Dartmoor 
A-stugged  in  the  mire." 

Squab  pie,  a  pie  in  favour  in  Devon  and  Dorset : 

"Mutton,  onions,  apples  and  dough 
Make  a  good  pie  as  any  I  know." 

Ingredients. — 3  Ib.  mutton  or  pork  cutlets,  6  large 
apples  sliced,  2  large  onions,  £  Ib.  salt  fat  bacon  cut 
small,  2  oz.  castor  sugar,  £  pint  of  mutton  broth,  pepper 
and  salt  to  taste.  Place  these  in  layers  in  a  deep  pie- 
dish,  cover  with  rich  paste  and  bake  for  an  hour  and  a 
half,  or  place  the  whole  in  a  crock  and  stew  an  hour 
and  a  half.  Serve  piping  hot.  I  have  seen  clotted 
cream  served  and  eaten  with  this  "  delicacy." 
Squab,  the  youngest  or  weakest  pig  of  the  litter.  The 
London  costermonger  speaks  of  the  youngest  member 
of  his  family  as  the  "  squab." 

Withwind,  the  wild  convolvulus. 

Withy,  the  willow-tree.  They  say  in  Wiltshire,  in  refer- 
ence to  the  very  rapid  growth  of  the  willow,  that  "  a 
withy  tree  will  buy  a  horse  before  an  oak  will  buy 
a  bridle  and  saddle."  The  willow  will  often  grow 
twelve  feet  in  a  season. 

Wizzened,  shrivelled,  withered:  as  "  a  wizzened  apple," 
"  a  wizzened-faced  woman." 

Wosbird.  A  term  of  reproach,  the  meaning  of  which 
appears  to  be  unknown  to  those  who  use  it.  It  is 
evidently  a  corruption  of  whore's-bird. 


